Code Red
by AlkalineTeegan
Summary: Not all of the team's calls start with a dead body.  Warnings—for language and graphic violence—apply as always, and also the standard disclaimer: I do not own NCIS.
1. Chapter 1

Gibbs arrived at the scene at 0300.

Which was about two hours after Tony.

Gibbs cursed the accident on the Wilson bridge that had stalled him as he made his way through the house, ignoring the framed photographic evidence of the happy family who lived in this suburban little slice of Americana.

Because it was false evidence. A false positive, really.

Gibbs stopped in the large kitchen, full of granite and stainless steel and potential for homecooked meals to be shared on the big round dining table in the adjoining room.

But Gibbs didn't care about any of that. His eyes went straight to the French doors off the kitchen, leading to a patio designed for happy family barbeques with the neighbors.

Gibbs was glad the neighbors had stayed home this time.

It was early Monday morning, but the police officers in the kitchen looked wide awake.

"Status," Gibbs barked, biting down on a demand for a SitRep because these were Metro cops. He flipped out his ID when all he got were raised eyebrows at his sharp, commanding tone and civilian clothes.

"Father went apeshit," said the nearest cop, a small, bald man with a neat mustache. "Wife cheated on him while he was overseas. Turns out the littlest of the little ones isn't his."

Another cop, slightly older, slightly more hair, gave his cohort a glare. But Gibbs didn't see it. His eyes were focused on the scene outside the glass.

The older officer said, "Capt. Jonathan Harris served three tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. He's highly decorated. He cut his last tour short to come home to care for his youngest son, Kevin, who was diagnosed with leukemia. But when the Captain was tested to see if he was a match to donate marrow, he found out that Kevin isn't his son." The cop glanced at the doors, covering a slight wince at the people on the patio. "His wife told him the boy was conceived right before he left for his first tour. Turns out it was more _during_ that tour, but it must have been close enough so as not to draw suspicion."

"Your boy out there?" the smaller man said, glancing toward the doors. "He's a fuckin' rock, man. Got all of that out of the dad while this loco bastard keeps swinging the gun back and forth between him and the kid's head."

Gibbs continued staring out of the glass doors, his eyes still on Tony, as they had been since he first walked into the kitchen and saw the two men outside, face to face with the little boy in Harris' arms between them. He could barely see Harris, who was to the left of the glass, but he could see his agent. Tony's hands were up, steady even in the chill of the middle of this bitterly cold night, and he spoke while looking down the barrel of the gun pointed at his face.

Gibbs turned to the smaller cop. "Then why the hell hasn't 'my boy' taken a shot yet?" But it was perfunctory. He knew the answer.

The man blinked in shock at the tone, his hand coming up to stroke the mustache in a reflexive gesture of self-comfort.

His comrade answered for him. "Captain Harris' stipulation, sir. He only let your agent out there if he agreed to go unarmed."

Gibbs turned furious eyes on the gray-haired cop. "And you let him walk into that situation without a weapon?"

The officer held up his hands, his eyes apologetic. "Wasn't really any stopping him, Agent Gibbs." He offered a small smile. "He really is doing a hell of a job out there, sir. When Harris locked himself out there and demanded to speak with NCIS, I honestly almost didn't call. I thought one of our negotiators would be better suited to handle this. But your guy, Agent DiNozzo, is it?" the man asked, using the Italian pronunciation.

"DiNozzo," Gibbs corrected, using his agent's preferred inflection and realizing Tony hadn't bothered to identify himself with anything other than a flip of his badge, just as Gibbs had done minutes earlier.

The older cop nodded. "He barely said two words to us," he said. "Just asked who was in charge, slapped his gun on the counter here and walked right out there, hands up. Just like they are now. He's barely moved in two hours."

Gibbs finally saw Tony's SIG on the counter, peeking out from behind the big cop. "You in charge?" he asked, knowing that answer, too. But still he asked, knowing DiNozzo had enough problems without him starting a pissing match in here.

A nod. "I'm Sgt. Teddy Haywood. I _say_ I'm in charge," he said, glancing back at the windows and nodding at the distraught father, "but it's more like he is right now."

Gibbs nodded back, and the two veterans shared a look. They didn't know each other. But they both knew.

"Turn it on," Gibbs said to the smaller man, whose hand went immediately for his mustache as confusion filled his dark eyes. "You heard them talking. I don't hear them now. Turn. It. On."

Mustache nodded quickly and moved to a console, flipping switches until the muffled voices became clear as day—clear as the morning that either would or would not dawn for the three people on the patio.

"My son is not my son!" Harris roared. "How many fucking times do I have to say that before you get it?"

Tony's voice came next, slow and calm in a way that Gibbs hadn't heard it in a long time. "That's biology, Captain." He shrugged. "That boy in your arms right now? That eight-year-old little boy who plays catch with you and calls you Daddy? He doesn't care about that. He just wants to be with you."

Gibbs watched as DiNozzo took his eyes off the gun and looked down at the little boy, trembling in the sub-freezing night air, and Gibbs knew how hard it was for his agent to ignore the weapon pointed at his face.

But Tony didn't blink.

"He's scared, Captain Harris," Tony said, crouching so slowly Gibbs could almost feel the sympathetic burning in his quads, the creaking in his knees. DiNozzo started moving his left hand, as if to reach out to the boy.

"Move that hand another inch and I'll put a hole in it," Harris said, his voice deadly calm.

Tony froze. "I'm gonna stand up now, Captain," DiNozzo said. "I've got this bad knee from college football and since it's colder than those Ohio winters out here, it's about as stiff as a board. That okay? If I stand up?"

Mustache snorted beside Gibbs, and the agent almost shot him even before he spoke. "That's a damn fool thing to say. What if this guy's from Michigan?"

"Can it," Haywood said, sounding almost as annoyed as Gibbs felt. "Harris said he played ball in school, too. Agent DiNozzo is trying to build rapport with him."

The officers fell silent as Tony continued doing just that, but Gibbs was looking around, getting a feel for the layout of the place. "Why aren't there sharpshooters out there? Why not just put a bullet in this guy's head and end it?" he asked, not particularly wanting that outcome—but knowing it was better than Harris killing the kid. Or Tony.

"He's smart," Haywood said. "Standing in a storage closet so he's covered on three sides. Can't shoot through this wall because we don't know exactly where he is and can't risk hitting the boy. Only way to get him would be the house behind your agent, but the angles from the windows are all wrong and there's no elevated deck like this one."

"But DiNozzo might not know that," Gibbs said, glancing at the dark night sky. "He crouched to give you a shot."

Haywood nodded. "Second time he's done it. Used the exact same phrasing as the first time: 'He's scared, Captain Harris.' Guess he was just giving us another chance in case we weren't in position the first time."

"Or confirming what he already knows," Gibbs said softly, his eyes on his agent's as he wondered if Tony knew he was there. It was hard to tell given the angles, the lighting and accounting for glare.

"Which is?" Mustache asked, reminding Gibbs of his presence.

"That he's on his own out there."

Mustache nodded, but Gibbs found Haywood watching him intently. Gibbs raised an eyebrow.

"You think he might be thinking of doing something not-so-smart?" the big cop asked, following Gibbs' eyes to DiNozzo's face.

"I think he's thinking of doing something downright stupid," Gibbs said, glancing at his watch. "They've been out there for two hours now?"

Haywood turned a massive wrist and checked a cheap gold watch. "Little bit over, now," he said. He eyed Gibbs. "How stupid?"

Gibbs held in a sigh, thinking about all he knew about Tony: his past, his personality, his pain, his flaws, his will, his weaknesses and his strengths. He pried his gaze away from his agent to meet Haywood's eyes. "He'd take a bullet if he thought he could save the kid."

Haywood winced. "Ah, another one, you mean," he said quietly.

Gibbs' eyes snapped back to Tony, roaming his agent's body searching for signs of an injury. And that's when he saw the hole in DiNozzo's black NCIS jacket, dead-center over his heart.

"Thank God he thought to put a vest on this morning, right?" Haywood said, sounding a bit wary.

And Gibbs knew it was because he looked furious. He was about to start demanding answers when the officer spoke again.

"Harris freaked when we slapped the microphone on the door," Haywood explained. "Pulled the trigger the second it hit the glass. DiNozzo staggered back against that bench, but I could see he was still breathing and there was no blood. I ordered our guys to stand down because I figured one move and Harris'd put one in his head."

Gibbs nodded, figuring he was right, but still he glared at the cop. "Why the hell risk the microphone? DiNozzo's the only one who needs to hear this guy."

Haywood gave a faint smile but it disappeared at Gibbs' glowering. "Agent DiNozzo told us to. Said the only way to keep his boss from charging out there was if he could hear what was going on." Haywood paused. "I'm guessing he meant you."

"I'm gonna put a bullet in him myself when this is over," Gibbs growled, seeing the pain in Tony's eyes now that he knew to look for it.

"Waste of a hell of an agent," Haywood said. "First thing he did when he opened his eyes after taking that round was tell the kid everything was okay." The officer smiled again. "Asked him what his favorite pizza was and told him they could get one for breakfast. Guy's tough as nails, he is. I could hear the pain in his voice for a sentence or two, but by the time he and Kevin found out both their favorite toppings were red peppers, it was like nothing had happened. Except for that hole in his jacket."

Gibbs nodded, his thoughts far away.

"And what's probably a monster bruise underneath," Haywood added, trying to fill the tense silence. "Getting shot at that range's like gettin' kicked by a mule."

"Wait," Gibbs said, the chatter catching up with him. "What did you say?"

"About the mule?" Haywood asked, looking perplexed.

"About the pizza," Gibbs said. "What topping was their favorite?"

"Red peppers," Haywood said.

Gibbs swore softly. "Tony hates red peppers," he said, shaking his head.

"Code," the big cop said, nodding. "He mentioned the boy's red scarf, too. And wanting some red wine to ward off the chill. Myself, I just thought I'd rather have whiskey, but… Damn. I missed it. What's he trying to tell us?"

"My guess is he's red-lighting the sharpshooters," Gibbs said after a moment. "He doesn't think Harris will kill the boy and wants more time to talk him down."

Haywood frowned, his grizzled gray chin showing deep lines. "But he crouched out of the line of fire—twice." He paused, considering all the angles. "Or like you said, confirming we didn't have a shot. Or maybe he heard something that changed his mind. I have to admit, I'm only half-listening since all they're talking about is football. I'm a baseball man, myself."

Gibbs nodded, knowing he was doing the same—but for a different reason. It made him ache to stand there and listen to Tony telling such genuine lies about how his father came to all his games. Gibbs knew it was much more likely that Tony had sent tickets to his every game, only to walk off the field disappointed every time, win or lose.

"Don't you want to see Kevin play ball someday? Maybe as a Buckeye? That bright red uniform nothing but a blur as he streaks down the field?" Tony was saying, and Gibbs could hear the exhaustion creeping into his voice, here at nearly 0400. It made Gibbs wonder where Tony had been when he got the call. Judging by the jeans and running shoes he wore under his NCIS jacket, Gibbs figured probably home, maybe even in bed.

And now he was standing out in the freezing cold on a stranger's back porch, trying to clean up those strangers' shattered lives while staring down the barrel of a gun.

Gibbs wasn't sure he'd ever been more proud.

Or worried.

This had gone on too long, with everyone involved so tense someone was bound to break. A thought hit Gibbs so suddenly it made him realize how tense he was, too, knowing Tony was completely vulnerable to this man as he stood out there, injured and unarmed.

"Where's the mother?" Gibbs snapped, irritated with himself and barking a mental order to get it together.

Haywood gave him a look. "No one told you?" He hurried on at Gibbs' glare. "Found her dead in an upstairs bedroom when we got here. Neighbor called in the shots fired, and we didn't even know what we were walking into when we got here."

"And Tony knew?" Gibbs asked, wincing and cursing his own tiredness. "Agent DiNozzo knew?"

Haywood nodded, realizing from Gibbs' wince that DiNozzo was not just this man's agent, but also his friend. "He walked in as they were taking the body out. He knew."

Gibbs shook his head, hard, as if to shake off the fog of sleeplessness. "He wouldn't red-light the snipers, then. Not knowing Harris killed her. She was his wife. This kid means nothing to him."

"So what was DiNozzo trying to tell us?" Haywood asked. "What's red?"

"Blood," Mustache said, apparently overcoming his fear of his superiors.

And about stopping Gibbs' heart.

"But he looks fine," Mustache continued, shrugging.

Haywood saw the look on Gibbs' face and offered, "He'd have bled out by now if the vest didn't catch that bullet. Considering where it hit him."

Gibbs held up a hand, both appreciating the man's kindness and not needing to hear about Tony getting shot or bleeding out.

Not when both were still such viable outcomes of this disaster.

"What if you had adopted him?" Tony said, and Gibbs picked up on the slight hoarseness in his voice. He didn't blame him: DiNozzo had been talking for almost three hours straight and that would put a strain on anyone, even Tony, who chattered through most of the days.

Gibbs decided that as long as Tony made it through this, he would never tell him to shut up again.

But he couldn't promise anything on the headslaps.

"Would it matter that he's not your blood? Even if you had raised him his entire life? Held him as a baby, let him grip your finger with tiny pink hands? Taught him to ride the shiny red bike you got him for Christmas? _Read_ to him at night? Because you did that with Kevin. That's what makes him your son, Captain. Not some test done in a lab," Tony said, his voice cracking with overuse on the last word.

"Aw, you running out of steam on me, Tony?" Harris said from the shadows. "Adrenaline from that round to the chest running out? I can fix that, you know."

Haywood and Gibbs exchanged a glance, and something started nagging at the back of Gibbs' mind. His gut told him something was about to happen, but all he could do was listen.

"We're all tired," Tony said, letting the evidence show in his voice. "Kevin's about to fall asleep in your arms. Let him go inside and warm up, huh? I'll stay out here and we can figure it out. He's a very sick little boy, Captain, and it's freezing out here. Please? Can't you feel him shaking? Please? Just let him go?"

Everyone in the kitchen waited, not a single soul breathing while the Captain debated.

"Come on," Haywood whispered.

And Gibbs added his own silent plea.

Suddenly there was movement in the shadows, and Kevin emerged, pale and shaking and obviously terrified out of his mind. As soon as Harris released him, the boy surged into DiNozzo's arms, eliciting a grunt of pain from the agent as Kevin crashed into his bruised chest and buried his face in Tony's neck. Tony stayed crouched in front of the bench, fighting to keep from putting his arms around the boy and never letting go.

"Go in the house, Kevin," Tony ordered firmly but softly once he had caught his breath. He gently picked limbs from his but found the boy attached like a chilled little leech. "Please go in the house, Kevin. It's too cold out here for you."

"Noooo," the boy moaned, shifting to get a better grip on Tony's vest and making the agent gasp in pain. "Wanna stay with you."

In the cozy kitchen, Gibbs winced along with Tony but breathed a half-sigh of relief. Maybe this could end peacefully—or at least as peacefully as his agent getting shot in the chest and a man traumatizing a little boy could be. Gibbs cursed the job, and the knowledge that even happy endings weren't always so happy.

Beside him, Mustache slumped against the counter and grinned. "Thank god," he said, patting Gibbs on the shoulder, his relief making him completely miss the glare he got in return. "Told you your boy was damned good."

"I'll say," Haywood agreed, smiling broadly.

Outside, Tony knew he couldn't pry the boy off without hurting him so he went still and tried to think. He looked up to see Harris studying him intently.

"My boy," Harris said, cocking his head to the side, "in the arms of another man. Just like my wife when she conceived the little shit. How fitting."

Harris fired and the boy's head exploded in a burst of blood and bone. Tony barely registered that he was holding a corpse that used to be a shivering little boy when Harris put the gun to his own head.

"Sorry I ruined your night, pal."


	2. Chapter 2

Tony released the small body, and with the boy no longer alive to cling to him, Kevin fell to the patio at about the same time as his "Daddy."

Which was about the same time Gibbs threw open the French doors hard enough to shatter the glass. The sound was deafening in this cold dead of night, but Gibbs noticed Tony didn't even flinch as he slumped against the bench. He ran to his agent, shuddering hard and forcing aside his own devastation as he stepped over the child's dead body because he knew Kevin was beyond help. Like so many children lost to senseless violence every day.

But Gibbs could still help the living.

In fact, he and his team spent their lives doing just that.

Gibbs ran warm hands over his agent's chilled body, starting with his bloody face and neck. He found a small gash at the left side of his throat, but he didn't know if it was from the bullet or a bone fragment. The bleeding was light so Gibbs moved on, reaching with what he realized were shaking hands under Tony's jacket, sliding his hand between the vest and his agent's skin to search for wounds, and then running those hands down each of Tony's arms.

He couldn't find any other physical injury so he took Tony's bloody face in his hands.

"Tony," he said, loudly and firmly. "Look at me."

But the green eyes staring back at him were glazed.

"Talk to me, DiNozzo," Gibbs ordered, growing more concerned by the second.

"I'll get the medics," he heard Haywood say from somewhere off to his right.

"Tony," Gibbs said again, practically shouting in his face and getting nothing in return. "Come on, kid," he said, as close to pleading as he had ever come with DiNozzo. He pulled a hand back from Tony's cheek and slapped him lightly, searching vacant green eyes for some sign of his friend.

"Harder," one of the EMTs said as he crunched over broken glass.

Gibbs gave the man a look.

The EMT shook his head. "I know, it's not SOP," he said, "but I've seen it work enough times that it's worth a try. Is he breathing?"

"Barely," Gibbs answered, wanting to look away as he drew back and slapped Tony hard across the face.

It worked.

Tony blinked twice and drew a deep, shuddery breath, the panic flooding his eyes making Gibbs brace to get hit back. But Tony just sat there, gasping with hitched breaths that Gibbs couldn't tell were pain or shock.

"Let's get him inside," the medic said, sharing a look with Gibbs that read loud and clear: _And away from all this. _ But they both knew: Escaping or ignoring it wouldn't make it all go away.

Gibbs slid under Tony's right side and waited for the EMT to move to his left. They nodded and hoisted the agent up, letting him hang like a broken marionette between them as they moved him inside to the warmth of the house that would never again be a home. At least not to the people left outside.

They stepped into the kitchen and the warm air was like a slap in the face after the biting cold outside.

It worked better than Gibbs' slap.

Tony's eyes blinked rapidly and he shrugged out of the men's grips on him in one sharp movement. Gibbs watched him reach up with a shaking hand to swipe at the blood on his face, and it made him feel sick, memories of Kate's blood on that same pale cheek assaulting his mind. He was suddenly glad he had called out only half the team—and he wished he had been able to spare them all. Gibbs moved closer, hesitating only slightly upon recognizing the look in Tony's previously shell-shocked eyes.

It was rage.

DiNozzo lowered the hand and looked at Gibbs and the medic as if just noticing them.

"What the _fuck_?" he spat, those furious eyes going to the door and making Gibbs wonder if Tony's overwhelmed brain even remembered that Harris had killed himself already. "How the _fuck_ could he do that?"

None of the several spectators had an answer for him, and Gibbs knew their presence wasn't going to help Tony. Honestly, he wasn't sure _he _could help his agent, but he also knew he had to try. So he reached out as DiNozzo brushed past him—maybe to go try to interrogate a corpse—and grabbed Tony by the arm, half-expecting again to get hit.

"It's over, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, looking straight into those glowing green eyes. His voice was quiet but firm, his grip loose but ultimately inescapable.

Tony wasn't going anywhere—wasn't leaving Gibbs' sight until he was sure his agent was as okay as anyone could be after a night like this.

The fury hadn't lessened, and Gibbs suddenly found himself the target of DiNozzo's rage.

He mentally shrugged_. So be it._

"Hit me, Tony," Gibbs said softly, hoping he wouldn't. Gibbs hadn't been lying when he said DiNozzo was a hell of a brawler. "If that's what you need to do," he continued steadily, eyes locked with his agent's, "then hit me. I won't hit you back."

DiNozzo debated while Gibbs braced.

But Tony just pulled out of his boss's grasp and stalked out of the house, leaving behind a scene that would never leave him.

Gibbs followed Tony outside, expecting a fight and surprised to end up watching helplessly as his agent slumped down onto the wide brick front steps. The multicolored Christmas lights wrapped around the banisters twinkled obscenely in the frosty night air, and Gibbs stood as frozen as the puddles in the driveway because he had no idea what to do, what to say. A raging DiNozzo he could deal with; he wasn't sure what to do with a broken one. He had no idea if Tony would accept whatever comfort he could manage to offer. He thought briefly about slipping back into work mode and barking orders. He thought longer about dragging Tony to a hospital for a chest x-ray.

But when he reached the bottom of the stairs and looked into blank green eyes that he had expected to be seething, all words left him. He simply stared back, waiting for something, anything.

After a long while of watching DiNozzo shake in his thin NCIS windbreaker, Gibbs started to shrug out of his heavy wool coat, asking an unnecessary, "Cold?"

But Tony shook his head and clamped his mouth shut, effectively muting the chattering of his teeth.

Gibbs rolled his eyes and finished removing his coat, holding it out and finally moving to drape it around DiNozzo's trembling body.

"I'm fine," Tony said, standing before Gibbs could complete the movement. "Don't," he rasped, his hoarseness a reminder that he had invested three hours' worth of words in resolving this peacefully.

Gibbs watched him retreat to lean against the opposite railing. "Did everything you could," Gibbs said softly, sympathy in his eyes.

Those blank eyes flashed with anger. "Really?" Tony snapped out, his tone as biting as the frigid air swirling around them. "Go tell Kevin that."

Gibbs just stood there, suppressing his instant retort and trying to remember the last time he'd had to watch his words around Tony.

"Oh, right," Tony said, the twisted expression on his face far too pained to be called a smile—no matter how hard he was trying to fake it. "He's dead."

"Yeah, DiNozzo," Gibbs agreed softly. "He is. Because Harris shot him, Tony, not because of anything you did. It was not your fault."

Tony's eyes closed and his breathing picked up, making Gibbs glance toward the house where he had last seen that medic. He found the man standing just inside the entryway, watching them through narrow vertical panes of glass flanking the door. The concern on the medic's face made Gibbs wonder if he should have been more thorough in his examination of his injured agent—but really, he had been looking for bullet holes, not broken bones.

He stepped forward, holding out the coat again. "Take it. It's freezing out here."

"I'm not cold," Tony said stubbornly.

Gibbs swallowed a sigh. "That's called shock," he said, eyeing Tony critically and noting his increased shaking. "Let me take you to a hospital?"

Tony was already shaking his head. "I'm fine."

Gibbs' patience was running thin and he just barely kept himself from shouting. "You got shot, DiNozzo," he said. He took a breath, counted to five and continued more calmly, "Need to make sure you didn't break anything."

"Vest caught it," Tony said, shrugging dismissively. "Nothing's broken."

Gibbs gave up on that fight, knowing the only way he was getting DiNozzo into an ER would be cuffing and dragging him. It wasn't worth upsetting Tony over a potentially busted rib when he was this close to breaking anyway.

Tony glanced toward the house and then back at his car, parked crookedly at the curb in his earlier haste—when there was still hope that this night wouldn't end in one of the many tragedies that plague this broken world. "You want my report tonight or can I get it to you tomorrow?" he asked stiffly, his eyes still longingly on the car.

Gibbs folded his jacket over his arm, knowing both Hell and the blood in both their veins would freeze over before Tony would accept it. He nodded at his own car, farther down the block. "Come on," he said, releasing a sigh as Tony shied away from the hand Gibbs slid under his elbow. "I'll take you home."

But DiNozzo just rolled his eyes. "I'm _fine,_ Gibbs," he protested.

And Gibbs lost it. He got in his agent's face and yelled, "You got shot—close range in the damned chest, DiNozzo. Those vests aren't fail-proof, and you know it. Or if he'd aimed a foot higher, you'd be dead right now."

"But I'm not," Tony said, not backing down from his boss's fury. "I'm—"

Gibbs lowered his voice, but the anger—and the concern—were still there. "A little boy died in your arms," he said, not surprised when _that_ made Tony look away. "A little boy that you did everything you could to save. And now his blood is on your cheek. And maybe you're still too stunned to be thinking of Kate's blood there, too, but I know it'll come. Put all that on top of taking a bullet that could easily have killed you, and I'm sorry, Tony, but I'm not sure if I want you to be fine."

Anguished green eyes met blazing blue ones for a long moment. And then Tony nodded and started walking toward Gibbs' car, settling into the passenger seat without a word. Gibbs followed, handing Tony a handkerchief before starting the engine and putting the car in gear. He had no idea why Tony had given in so suddenly, but he wasn't about to question it.

"Wait," Tony said, his eyes on the house.

Gibbs waited.

"Kev—" he choked on the name, took a breath and tried again. "Kevin's brothers. They're at a sleepover at a friend's house. Someone needs to tell them…"

Gibbs shook his head, knowing there was no way he was going to let Tony put himself through the agony of telling those boys their entire family was dead—by their father's own hand. "Metro will take care of it," he said, pulling his phone and making the calls before Tony could protest.

Toning down his breakneck driving out of consideration for his injured passenger, Gibbs waited until they were on the interstate to ask one more time, "Sure about the hospital?"

DiNozzo nodded, still looking out the window.

"You're gonna be hurting once you warm up." Gibbs cranked up the heat and turned the vents toward his chilled passenger.

"I don't care," Tony said. And then he winced—more likely from having let that slip than from the pain of his injury.

Gibbs turned stern eyes on him and said firmly, "You do _not _need to punish yourself for what happened tonight."

He paused and slid a sidelong glance at his stone-faced passenger. But Tony stayed stubbornly silent, and for a while, Gibbs just drove.

Then, not really expecting an answer, he asked anyway, "How bad's the pain?"

And he wasn't surprised when Tony stayed silent, green eyes glued to the window as a light snow began to fall over the District's deserted streets. Tony's quiet stillness was grating on Gibbs in a way he wouldn't have thought possible, so he threw out a question that demanded a response.

"Your place or mine?"

That there was no waggling of eyebrows or joke about sexual harassment in the workplace made Gibbs' concern flare all over again. In the past, no matter how upset Gibbs knew Tony was, his agent always tried for some attempt at humor. But Gibbs was glad he didn't try tonight: Gallows humor could get a cop through a lot, but Gibbs knew Tony would just hate himself for it later. For now, it was best to just let Tony _be. _So instead of repeating himself or demanding an answer, Gibbs just waited for Tony's soft words to come.

"I want to go home," he finally said.

The simple plea, spoken with such honesty and fragile hope, about broke Gibbs' heart—as if it weren't already beating brokenly, shattered in his chest but still managing to beat on. Gibbs didn't waste the time to wonder how life could go on after such loss. It just always did.

Gibbs swallowed hard. "Sure, Tony."


	3. Chapter 3

The silence reigned all the way to Tony's apartment building, and Gibbs tried futilely to come up with something to say, but he couldn't remember the last movie he had watched and he hadn't been keeping up with the football season so he stayed quiet. And there were just no words to make what had happened at the Harris house make any sort of sense.

Gibbs pulled his car into a visitors spot and cut the engine, waiting for Tony's protest.

It came, and the exhaustion in his agent's voice almost made Gibbs give in. "You don't have to stay."

Gibbs just looked at him. "You really think you should be alone right now?"

Tony ignored the question. "I'm just going to sleep," he said, turning his wrist to check his watch.

"Don't worry about getting to the office today, DiNozzo," he said, feeling both exasperation and a touch of pride. "Take the day off and get some rest." _Somehow I doubt you'll be sleeping—until your body overrules your mind and you pass out. _

Gibbs wasn't sure if it was the actual words or the soft concern in them that had Tony looking away, as though shamed, but he kicked himself anyway. DiNozzo was a study in contradictions, and Gibbs knew it: The man who shamelessly begged for attention when all was well always shied away from it when all was not. It made Gibbs wonder if it wouldn't be more kind to just leave Tony alone.

But Gibbs knew that once the shock wore off, the pain would set in with a vengeance at being ignored so long. All kinds of pain, he knew from experience. And while Gibbs knew the injury to his agent's chest was likely superficial, the damage to the man's psyche was far less certain.

In short, Gibbs just couldn't leave Tony alone with his thoughts, his demons—all that pain.

"Traffic'll be a bitch by the time I get even close to home," Gibbs tried again. "You mind if I crash on your couch?"

The look in Tony's tired eyes said he didn't buy it for a minute, but again he gave in without a word, just a shake of his head as he got out of the car. Gibbs watched him wince and then blink in surprise, as if disbelieving that getting shot in the chest at close range should actually hurt. But it didn't surprise Gibbs because he knew Tony always put his own pain last—even in cases like this when he was the only one left to feel.

As he followed his agent to his front door, Gibbs wondered why he himself was barely reacting to the child's death. Kids always got him. Always. Especially kids close in age to his own lost daughter and especially when those children died violent deaths.

Kevin's death had certainly been violent. But Gibbs had stepped over his body, closing his heart as firmly as the case file because that was the only way to get through it. It wouldn't do anyone any good if there was nothing left of Gibbs to offer his suffering agent.

He followed Tony through the door and wondered just how he planned on offering that comfort, just why he thought he was capable of giving it or Tony was capable of accepting it.

But it didn't matter. He knew he had to try.

Gibbs watched Tony drop his keys into a drawer of a small stand in the entryway, and he muttered, "Not gonna steal your car, DiNozzo."

Tony turned, reminding Gibbs too late of his impeccable hearing. "No, but a thief might."

Gibbs just raised an eyebrow.

"Advice from my first partner," Tony said, sounding as if he were on autopilot—as if it were the only way to function after such numbingly senseless violence. "First thing a smart thief takes is keys—to cars, boats, storage sheds. Hell, sometimes they even come back with the house keys, just in case the victim is too dumb or too lazy to change their locks. Smitty stayed with me during his divorce and he harped on me every day about my keys. Gave me that table as a thank-you for putting up with him."

Gibbs watched Tony's eyes thaw slightly as he spoke so he asked, "You still talk to him?"

The ice returned—in liquid form—and Tony blinked back the sudden tears, saying quietly, "Died last year. Shot while trying to stop a robbery off-duty."

Gibbs winced. "Damned shame," he said, wondering why he could offer an "I'm sorry for your loss" to a victim's grieving family but couldn't do the same for this man he loved like a son. "Sounds like he was a good guy."

"He was," Tony said, his overused voice cracking again.

They stood there, the silence awkward as Gibbs watched Tony fight more tears as he stared at the table. Gibbs was sorry he had brought up another painful subject, but he didn't know how to take it back anymore than he knew how to offer the apology.

"You should go wash your face," Gibbs finally said, not unkindly.

Tony nodded slowly, distantly. "Make yourself at home," he said, flinching on the last word and turning away to hide a face red with both embarrassment and a child's blood.

Gibbs watched him go and tried not to sigh, thinking again that maybe he should have just left. He went and sat on the couch, waiting to hear the bathroom door open again and wondering if words of comfort would magically appear when it did.

After a long while, Gibbs realized he hadn't heard a faucet or a shower, and he felt the first tingling in his gut—and the conviction that he had been right in not leaving Tony alone. He forced himself up from the softness of the couch and moved silently down the short hall, waiting outside the bathroom for some sign of life inside.

He got nothing.

He forced aside images of DiNozzo lying in pools of his own blood and told himself he knew Tony would never take his own life.

But just because he told himself that didn't mean he was sure he believed it.

Gibbs shook his head and knocked on the bathroom door, only to have it swing inward, revealing Tony staring in the mirror at a smudge of blood beneath his right eye. Gibbs started to back away, kicking himself for having doubted his friend, but he stopped cold at Tony's soft words.

"When you mentioned Kate before," he said, sounding as dazed as just after the boy was shot in his arms, "it was like catching that bullet all over again." He paused, putting a hand to his chest and taking a shaky breath. "I hadn't even thought about her."

He looked down, causing the tears that had been shining in his eyes to slip down his face, half of them taking nearly dried blood with them. He looked up, meeting Gibbs' eyes in the mirror with agony in his own.

But his voice was unnervingly blank despite the wetness on his cheeks. "A bullet in a vest and blood on my face, and I didn't even think once about her." His eyes closed, sending more pinkish tears rolling toward the floor. "How could I forget about her like that?"

Gibbs froze, feeling Tony's raw pain and wishing for all the world that he could make it stop—for both of them. He offered, "I guess you're just more well-adjusted than me."

Tony coughed a sound that could easily have been a laugh—or a choked sob—and he gave Gibbs a look.

Gibbs tried a small smile in return. "You remember her as she was when she was still alive," he said, and it was only a half-question.

The silence stretched long enough to make Gibbs wonder if he had said the wrong thing, but then Tony just frowned hard and nodded. "I try to."

Another small smile and a nod were all Gibbs gave in return, but he stayed while Tony cleaned the rest of the blood off his face. Gibbs watched Tony dab at the cut on his neck, the thin scab broken by his efforts to wash away the blood. For a moment, Gibbs just watched Tony watch himself bleed, but then Gibbs stepped forward, raising a hand to put pressure on the wound.

Tony blinked back into awareness and stepped back. "It's fine," he said, a slight edge to his tone as he stared down at the red wad of tissues in his hand.

Gibbs' eyes followed and a thought struck him, making him speak without thinking. "Red. What were you trying to tell us with the codeword 'red'?"

A muscle ticked in Tony's jaw and he closed his eyes, biting hard on his lip as if to keep from screaming something. "Nothing," he said, his tone blank again. "It doesn't matter now."

While Gibbs was debating whether to let that go, Tony finished up and brushed by him, only to stop a few steps away and look back at his boss. "You need anything before I hit the rack?"

Gibbs shook his head, and then watched Tony nod and turn away. Gibbs went and retrieved the overnight bag he kept in his car from the living room floor where he had dropped it upon entering Tony's apartment. He went through the motions, not letting himself think—even after he had settled on his agent's comfortable couch.

He closed his eyes, seeing nothing but red—at first just the color, but then images of Kevin's shattered skull—and he realized he had screwed up. He had failed to read the code correctly, failed to make the call his agent had been begging him to make.

He had failed Tony.

* * *

Gibbs snapped awake later that morning, the lack of pain in his body telling him he wasn't under his boat, as usual. He blinked several times and remembered where he was.

Unfortunately, he also remembered why he was there—and what his final thoughts had been before drifting off to dream.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

Gibbs sat up, finding Tony leaning against the wall near the kitchen. He didn't like the stiff formality to the words or the suit his agent was wearing. "Time is it?"

"Almost 0930," Tony answered, watching his boss eye him as critically as a crime scene. He forced a dim version of his usual megawatt grin. "I knew I shouldn't have made coffee. Like popping open a jar of honey near a hibernating bear."

Gibbs didn't speak, didn't smile back. He just eyed the insanely expensive suit and brightly colored silk tie and fought down a sigh. He knew what Tony was doing—and he didn't like it one bit. He had meant it when he said he wasn't sure if he wanted Tony to be fine after everything that had happened.

Because Tony wasn't fine.

The dark circles under his still-haunted eyes said as much as the overly sharp clothes, and Gibbs didn't want DiNozzo pretending nothing had happened. A tragedy had happened—right in front of his face—and while Gibbs didn't want Tony to suffer, he also didn't want him feigning false cheer to cover his pain.

"Thought I said to take the day off?" Gibbs said, managing to put some force behind the words.

Tony flinched. But he recovered quickly—much too quickly for Gibbs' liking.

"Come on, Boss, I've got reports to file, probies to harass."

"Would you stop that?" Gibbs bit out, standing and trying to ignore how Tony's carefully slouched posture straightened ever so slightly as he approached.

Tony gave him a blank look, but it was forced blankness, and Gibbs realized from that subtle difference just how affected the agent still was—and how hard he was trying to hide it.

"Stay home, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, finding his shoes and slipping them on. "That's an order."

Tony shoved off the wall with a wince, making Gibbs wonder just how much pain he was in from that bullet. "But Boss, I—"

"Fine," Gibbs said, shouldering his bag and heading for the door. "You wanna come in today? First place you go is to Ducky for a chest x-ray." Tony followed him into the entryway, but Gibbs held up a hand to stop the protest. "You got shot. And even if that bullet didn't go through ya, you still need to be cleared medically for field work."

Tony's mouth was set in a thin, hard line as Gibbs stepped outside the apartment. "That's not fair."

Gibbs snorted. "Life's not fair, Tony," he said, realizing too late that Tony had held a dead little boy in his arms not twelve hours ago and likely knew that hard lesson well. He started to speak, but Tony just closed the door behind him.

"No, Gibbs. It isn't."


	4. Chapter 4

Gibbs wasn't surprised when he walked into the squad room and saw that DiNozzo had beaten him in. He also wasn't surprised to see that Tony was throwing paper balls across the room and sinking them into Ziva's trash can with practiced ease. He wasn't surprised that Tony was also needling McGee into spilling the details of his date Saturday night. He wasn't surprised that McGee and Ziva were letting Tony hide even though they both would definitely have heard about the tragedy. It was a smallish agency, but those agents still talked.

So while Gibbs wasn't surprised by any of it, he was definitely worried.

"DiNozzo," he barked, setting his coffee on his desk and eyeing his senior agent, who snapped upright with a slight wince. "What'd Ducky say about your x-ray?"

The forced smile slipped a tiny bit as both Ziva and McGee shot surprised looks at their teammate, both obviously trying to find the injury Gibbs knew Tony hadn't mentioned. Getting shot in the chest was, after all, not exactly a paper cut. Gibbs also knew it was a low blow, but even if Ducky cleared him for field work, the team needed to know Tony wasn't going to be one hundred percent out there.

"I'm fine," Tony said, ignoring the inquisitive looks and not offering an explanation.

Gibbs gave him a look. "You know I can check to make sure you actually went to see him."

"Which is why," Tony said, turning up the smile to near-blinding brightness, "I actually went."

Gibbs grunted his approval as he sank into his chair, wondering why he felt like crap and DiNozzo looked completely unfazed. He could guess who had gotten more sleep, but it didn't seem to matter to Tony, who was back to guessing McGee's date's cup size from a photo on his phone while Tim pretended to be annoyed and Ziva pretended to be uninterested.

When the phone on his desk rang, informing them of yet another dead body, Gibbs actually asked for details for once, not wanting Tony anywhere near another young body. He would never admit that it was for his own bruised emotions, too, or that he had been hoping for a boring day of copying and collating rather than corpses.

He flipped the keys at Ziva. "Meet you downstairs. I need to see Ducky."

Tony's groan had nothing to do with physical pain. "I really did go, Boss."

Gibbs surprised them all by saying, "I know you did, Tony." They all blinked at the first name and the gentleness in his tone. Their jaws about dropped when he continued, "You can go home if you don't feel up to this."

The smile dropped off Tony's face for good and there was an edge of anger in his voice as he said, "I'm fine."

Gibbs made his way to the elevator, imagining what Tony might have said if they had been alone. 

_"You didn't save anyone last night, Gibbs, so why are you trying to protect me now?" _

* * *

Ducky looked up from the guts of the petty officer on his table and gave Gibbs a nod. "If you are here to inquire about Anthony, yes, he came to see me, and no, nothing is broken. He has some nasty bruising, and he is likely quite sore, but he refused anything for the pain. I cleared him, Jethro, because there was no medical reason not to."

Gibbs leaned back against an unoccupied table and rubbed a hand over his face.

Ducky nodded again. "Ah," he said, making a notation on a clipboard. "I take it you are not down here for my medical advice."

A tight frown was Gibbs' only response, and Ducky continued, "From the short time he was down here with me, I can tell you that he's badly shaken and doing his damnedest not to show it. Typical Tony behavior for a situation like this, I'm afraid."

"Last night was anything but typical, Duck," Gibbs said tiredly.

The doctor slid a glance toward the bank of drawers, his eyes zeroing in on what Gibbs guessed was the one holding Kevin Harris' broken little body. "I cannot argue with that," Ducky said, sounding equally tired. "It would be a blessing if I never had to autopsy another child so young."

Gibbs closed his eyes, remembering the boy clinging to Tony in the cold night air.

"I am sorry, Jethro," Ducky said with a wince. "I sometimes forget that while my job is never easy, at least I rarely have contact with the victims as living, breathing people."

Gibbs opened his eyes and shook his head. "Don't worry about it."

Ducky set aside the clipboard and stepped away from the body, eyes narrowed in concern as he studied his longtime friend. "What is it? What else is bothering you?"

The wry smile came against Gibbs' will, but he let it stay there. "No psychological autopsies, Duck. I'm not dead yet."

The doctor waited.

Gibbs shook his head again, drawing a slow breath. "I screwed up, Duck," he admitted softly to the dead man on the table.

"Gibbs," Ducky admonished, "I might not have been there, but I can say with certainty that you and Anthony did everything you possibly could have to save that boy. You are both outstanding agents—both good men—and if the two of you could not save young Kevin, then I am willing to bet that the boy just could not be saved." He paused, his hand twitching to reach out to the agent, but he knew the gesture of comfort would not be welcome. "You simply cannot save them all, Jethro."

Blue eyes flashed angrily, but Ducky knew the ire wasn't directed at him. "I didn't do anything," Gibbs said, frustration evident in his voice. "Tony did everything right. Absolutely everything. And it still didn't matter. Harris still killed the boy."

Ducky simply waited, sensing there was more to be said and knowing Gibbs well enough to know that it wouldn't come all at once.

"I was in the house while he was out there, freezing his ass off trying to save the kid, and there were microphones on them, but I wasn't listening."

The doctor frowned. "You may not be the best conversationalist, Jethro, but I know you are quite the good listener. I highly doubt you weren't listening to Anthony."

"Oh, I was listening," Gibbs said, still sounding angry—with himself. "But I wasn't _hearing_ him."

Again Ducky waited.

Gibbs huffed out a breath and realized he needed to hurry this up before his team came looking for him. "He was using a code, and I misunderstood him." He paused, looking away. "I failed him, and now I don't think he trusts me. And even if he does, he's still pissed at me, and I don't know how to bring it up without dredging up last night and hurting him all over again."

"Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad for him to talk about it," Ducky offered after a moment of thought. "Anthony is extremely resilient, but a tragedy like this boy's death takes time to process. My best advice is to give him that time and then try to talk to him. It might not be such a bad idea to _make_ him talk about it. I imagine he is putting on the same cheerful façade with you as he did with me this morning?"

Gibbs nodded. "And with McGee and Ziva." He rubbed a hand over his face again. "He's just been through so much—Kate and Paula, that mess with Jeanne, and then with Jenny. He's been framed for murder, drugged and dragged through the sewers, and beaten during an undercover assignment. I just don't know how much more he can take."

There was a mixture of surprise and concern in Ducky's eyes at the speech, a long one for Gibbs. The doctor paused, allowing for the gravity of his soft question. "Do you think he would hurt himself?"

"No," Gibbs said simply, meaning it.

Ducky waited.

Gibbs sighed with all the weariness of everything that had happened. "But I do think he might start itching to move on."

* * *

The team filed into the alley in silence, mimicking the tense ride over. Gibbs knew Tony was pissed at him for asking about his injury in front of the team, but he stood by that decision. More confusing, though, was whether he should bring up the misread code.

Gibbs abandoned the thoughts and focused on the crime scene, the body slumped against a brick wall. The dead man had a festive Santa hat on his head and bloody hole in his chest, his empty wallet discarded beside his lifeless body. 

Gibbs glanced to the side and caught DiNozzo as he lifted his camera and froze as he focused on the bloody scene. Gibbs was close enough that even his poor eyesight couldn't miss the tremors in Tony's hands.

"McGee," he barked, watching his senior agent jump along with the probie. "Photos. DiNozzo, you talk to the witness." He simply nodded at Ziva, who was stepping carefully over the pool of blood, taking measurements of the scene.

If anyone wondered at the assignments, no one spoke. But from DiNozzo, Gibbs got rolled eyes and an angry stare as he brushed past to go interview the witness. Gibbs ignored the open hostility even though he was fairly certain DiNozzo wanted him to push back. But it wasn't the place or the time; he knew Tony was still upset over Kevin's violent death, no matter how hard he was trying to ignore it around Ziva and McGee or mask it with him.

He just watched Tony touch a hand to his chest as he ducked under the crime scene tape, and then Gibbs turned back to the scene, wondering why the dead man was wearing no coat on this subfreezing morning.

* * *

Tony approached the woman and realized he might rather be photographing the blood. But then he shuddered hard, remembering the sudden warmth of Kevin's coating his chilled face and neck. He swiped at his skin, wincing when he brushed the cut at his throat and wondering for the thousandth time if it was from Harris' bullet or Kevin's broken skull—and wondering why it mattered.

Either way, the boy was still dead.

But still the urge to ask Ducky his opinion had been nearly overwhelming as he had sat on a shiny autopsy table that morning, wondering why he was trying to smile and joke when Kevin's cold body rested in a drawer not twenty feet away. It made him wonder what was wrong with him—and how he could ever fix himself when new cracks were appearing, seemingly by the day.

"Ma'am?" All other thoughts were relegated to their dark corners as he stopped in front of a woman who looked like she had seen too many years of too much pain of her own. Her mostly gray hair had obviously once been blonde, and Tony imagined her skinny figure had once been lovely. But now her cheeks were sunken, eyes shadowed and haunted. "I'm Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, NCIS."

A pale, shaking hand was extended and he shook it gently, afraid the frail bones would shatter in his grip. "Samantha Jordan," she said, her voice trembling as badly as the rest of her.

Tony eyed her thin coat and looked around for shelter against the brutal wind that was more than a match for the threadbare orange wool. He took Samantha by the elbow and winced again, this time at the fragility of the bones, and he loosened his grasp. He made his tone as gentle as his grip and said, "Ms. Jordan, let's go over there. Get out of the cold."

She glanced from the bus shelter he had nodded to and then back at the body. "Okay," she whispered, letting him lead her. But her eyes stayed on the dead man.

Tony felt a ripple of unease and would have sworn he saw guilt in her otherwise vacant blue eyes. The color was that of old denim, faded and worn—just like the rest of her. He watched her perch on the seat inside the graffiti-covered shelter, oddly afraid she might break as she started to bend.

"Samantha," she whispered.

"Ma'am?" he asked, not quite having heard her.

She looked up at him, a wistfulness passing through her eyes as they studied his handsome face. "You can call me Samantha."

He smiled at her, wondering again what she had looked like in the prime of her life—and what hardships in that life had stolen the beauty straight off her face. "Samantha," he said, nodding. "You told the Metro officers you saw the murder?"

She nodded as she tried to see through the thick plexiglass shelter walls. All Tony saw were black blurs, his team running the crime scene. He ignored the blob of red at the bottom of that scene. _One senseless murder after another_, he thought wearily, willing sudden moisture from his eyes and wanting to blame the brutal wind. _It never ends. _

"I saw the killer grab that poor man by his jacket," she said, her voice low and shaking. "He had gloves on but he wasn't wearing a coat himself and tried to take the other man's. It was a nice jacket. Leather with what seemed like a nice, thick liner. I bet it was real warm."

She paused, and Tony waited, knowing witnesses focused on different things, that they could often cite details about the smallest things but couldn't tell whether the assailant was black or white. Tony watched Samantha close her eyes, and he stayed silent, biting down on his questions and letting her just remember.

"The killer tried to drag that poor man into the alley there," she continued, her eyes still closed. "The man punched—" She paused, drawing an unsteady breath. "He punched the killer in the arm, and he fought to get away. But the killer was just not about to give up." She stopped again, opening her eyes only to have them take on a faraway look. "The poor boy must have been so cold in this godawful weather out here."

Tony frowned, noting the pause and the change in the descriptive from "the killer" to "the poor boy." He leaned forward, taking her bare hand in his gloved ones. "Samantha," he said, waiting until her eyes met his. "Do you know the boy who committed this crime?"

"He just must have been so cold," she repeated, looking away.

Tony ground his teeth, not feeling a whole lot of sympathy for a killer—not when his own memory was supplying images of Kevin's violent murder. "Ma'am—"

Samantha cut him off, turning anguished eyes to bore into his green ones. "You don't understand. It's just so cold out here. And the boy was only wearing a thin T-shirt. It must be below freezing out here. And he just must have wanted that man's coat. Why didn't he just give it to him?" she asked, her words coming faster as her breathing picked up. "He should have just given him the coat. And then he wouldn't have had to shoot him like that. Oh god. He just shot him. Just pulled out this big black gun and shot him. And then there was all that blood—"

"Samantha." Tony spoke her name firmly and sandwiched her shaking hands in his.

She looked back at his face, blinking as if just awakening—from a terrible, terrible dream.

"I need you to tell me about the boy," Tony said gently, grateful when she seemed to shake off the bloody images. He did the same and continued, "Can you describe him? Height, race, hair color? Anything you can tell me about him would be a big help."

She blinked a few more times, her eyes darting from his face to the blurry red blob outside the bus shelter. A heavy sigh torn straight from her soul shook her thin frame so hard Tony imagined hearing her bones rattle. She reached into her purse and pulled out her wallet, tremulous fingers sliding over the cheap imitation leather.

"I can do better," she said, looking him in the eyes as she turned the wallet toward him, showing him a photo of a man with blond hair, likely in his mid-twenties. "This is my son, Ryan."

Tony frowned, waiting.

She drew a fortifying breath that did little to steady her. With a shaking voice, she answered his silent question.

"Yes. I watched my son kill that man."


	5. Chapter 5

DiNozzo shook off the shock quickly. "Where is he, Samantha?" he asked, leaning forward in his urgency. He watched her hesitate and said, "We need to find him before he hurts someone else."

She closed her eyes, sending tears streaming down her cheeks. "I don't know," she whispered.

"Where would he go?" Tony asked, his questions firm. "Is there someone he would go to? A place he likes to hang out? Somewhere he would run if he knew he was in trouble?"

"You don't understand," Samantha said, shaking her head and wiping at the tears. "It's not like that."

DiNozzo paused, biting down on his frustration as he sensed this wasn't just a mother defending her child against a murder accusation. Hell, _she _had admitted her son was the killer.

"Ryan is…" She sighed. "Ryan is paranoid schizophrenic. There's a good chance he doesn't even understand what he did. He's a sweet boy—a gentle boy." Her eyes darkened and her fingers found a scar on her left hand. "But not when he's off his meds. Then, it's like he's…"

"Someone else?" Tony supplied. He watched with sympathy as she shook her head. "That's all the more reason we need to find him, Samantha. Can you think of anywhere he would go?"

She looked back toward the crime scene, shuddered and looked back at him, helplessly. "I honestly have no idea. When he goes off his medication and runs off, I've never been able to find him. He usually just shows up back home—often crying and scared and begging me to forgive him." She stopped, her hands flying to her mouth and her worn blue eyes going wide. "My god. What if this isn't the first—"

"Shhh," Tony said, pulling her into a tight hug because he could think of nothing else to do to help this woman who had obviously lived such a hard life—and was obviously devoted to her sick son. "Don't worry about that right now."

Her breath puffed out warmly across the cut at his throat, and he swallowed sudden nausea, the tiny woman in his arms bringing Kevin momentarily back to life. He released her and stood, hearing the reverberations of last night's gunshot in his head. "Wait here," he managed before bolting from the shelter.

Tony went and leaned against the vacant brick building, glad the crowd of gawkers had mostly dispersed—death in the District was hardly an unusual sight for its hardy population. He gulped deep breaths of cold air, feeling the tightness in his chest and wondering if his lungs could freeze inside him. But still he pulled in the frigid air, shaking as hard as he and Kevin had been the previous night. Tony squeezed his eyes shut, suddenly terrified he might break down and start sobbing right there on the sidewalk.

He realized suddenly that he had been crying in front of Gibbs the night before, and he was mortified but grateful that his boss hadn't made a big deal out of it.

A warm hand landed on his shoulder and Tony looked up into worried blue eyes.

"You all right, DiNozzo?"

All thoughts of tears fled and Tony straightened, roughly shrugging off the gentle touch. "Fine," he said tersely, his eyes on the shelter so he could ignore the concerned gaze watching him so intently. "Samantha Jordan. The mother of our killer." He ignored Gibbs' surprise and handed over the photo as he filled him in on the details without ever changing his brusque tone or looking at his boss.

"That's a good job, Tony," Gibbs said, reaching out to give him a pat on the back.

But DiNozzo neatly sidestepped both the touch and the praise. He turned once he was safely out of reach and looked Gibbs in the eyes.

"All I did was listen, Boss."

Gibbs just stood there, surprised and hurt by his agent's cold anger—and of course letting none of that show. He didn't have time to even begin a response when there was a shout from across the street.

"Mom!"

Tony's head snapped toward the voice and he started drawing his weapon even before he recognized the man's face from the photo Samantha had just showed him.

"Federal agents," Tony barked, leveling the gun at the man's head as he ran toward his mother. "Don't move."

Gibbs had also pulled his gun and was slowly approaching the man, who looked bewildered but simply stopped in the middle of the street and raised his hands.

"It's not what you think," Samantha said again. "This is Ryan's twin brother, Daniel."

Gibbs opened his mouth but there was a sudden movement at the corner of his eye, and one of the last of the gawkers stepped forward.

"That's him!" the woman shouted, pointing at Samantha's son. "That's the guy who shot that man!"

Tony and Gibbs exchanged a look, and Gibbs moved toward their suspect while Tony went to Samantha's side and gently pulled her away.

"Get on the ground," Gibbs ordered.

"But—" the man protested, his eyes flashing as he looked to his mother.

"Just do it," Gibbs said firmly. "Cooperate, and we'll get everything straightened out."

The man sank to his knees with resignation on his face as he stared at his mother.

"Do as they say, Daniel," Samantha said, leaning on Tony as if unable to stay upright on her own. "Everything will be fine, son."

* * *

"Twins?" Abby exclaimed later that afternoon, her fingers flying over her keyboard. "Twins," she said, grinning and nodding at the fingerprint results on her screen. "The man you have up in interrogation is _not_ Ryan Jordan, whose fingerprints are in the system because of a B&E a few years back. I can't tell you exactly who he is, because his prints are not on file anywhere, but considering he looks just like Ryan Jordan and his birth certificate and drivers license show identical information—except Ryan was born a few minutes earlier—you can safely assume Daniel Jordan is who he says he is."

"I never assume, Abby," Gibbs said, frustrated and wondering why he had expected this to be easy. Maybe it was wishful thinking—he wanted to send his increasingly cranky team home, especially Tony, whose hand had barely left his injured chest since they returned from the crime scene. Gibbs wasn't sure if he was just in pain and didn't realize he was doing it—or if he was doing it on purpose to try to get Gibbs to call him out on it. Either way, Gibbs hated the quiet hostility coming from his senior agent about as much as he hated his own uncertainty in how to deal with it. Maybe he should just let Tony snap and get it over with.

"But Gibbs," Abby mock-pouted. "It's an assumption based in science and official records. Actually, it's more a deduction than anything." Her eyes lit up and she grinned mischievously. "I mean, I guess it's possible that there's a third twin—er, triplet—and his mother kept him a secret because—"

"Abby." Gibbs and Tony spoke at the same time, cutting off the Goth's excited conspiracy theory. Gibbs caught a slight hint of a smile on Tony's face—but it turned to a tight frown as soon as he noticed his boss was looking.

Gibbs sighed internally and stared at the floor, trying to gather his thoughts.

"Abby, I am confused," Ziva spoke up from where she lounged against the shiny metal table. "If they are identical twins, should their fingerprints not also be identical?"

Abby smiled. "You would think that, right? Because identical twins develop from the same fertilized egg and share the same DNA. But," she said, still smiling, "each twin develops in a different part of the uterus and therefore has different stimuli, different sensory experiences, and different nutrient levels. It's like building your boats, Gibbs. Even if you used the same blueprint for two boats that turn out looking rather identical, there will still be different patterns in the woodgrain."

"Don't use blueprints, Abbs," Gibbs said, trying not to smile and realizing how much he missed the banter among the team.

The scientist rolled her eyes. "Gee, thanks, Bossman. You just totally screwed my analogy."

Gibbs gave her a peck on the cheek in apology and headed for the door before stopping and turning back. "None of his prints at the scene, but did Ducky get any off the body?"

Abby shrugged. "I doubt he's done yet. That's a whole lotta super-heated superglue, Gibbs. I'd hate to be around when accounting gets the bill for _that._"

"Worth it if we find a print," Gibbs said. He turned to his team. "Ziva, McGee, find the brother. DiNozzo, you're with me."

Gibbs turned and left the lab, pretending he didn't hear the sigh from his senior agent as he followed him out. Gibbs waited until Ziva and McGee were out of earshot to turn on Tony, backing him into a corner of the corridor. He ignored the wariness in the green eyes watching him and focused on the anger, letting his own bleed into his voice.

"Hell do you want, DiNozzo?" he growled.

Tony just blinked. "What?"

"Don't play games with me," Gibbs said, leaning in closer but not touching. "You want me pissed at you? Fine. I'll go back to snapping at you and smacking the back of your head."

Tony didn't speak, but Gibbs couldn't help noticing the faint relief in his eyes. It made him feel sick. Was he really that much of a bastard that Tony couldn't accept his sympathy and kindness after a shared tragedy?

"But it's not because you did anything wrong last night, Tony," Gibbs continued, softening—and noting the corresponding raising of hackles. "It's because unlike you, I actually hate it when you're pissed at me."

Gibbs turned on his heel and walked to the interrogation room, aware of Tony trailing behind but unable to see his face, his reaction. Gibbs opened the door and stood beside the table where Daniel Jordan was seated, waiting until Tony slouched against the mirror to take the seat across from their likely innocent suspect. Gibbs eyed the man for a moment, noting his slight nervousness—which could easily have been simply a result of sitting in an interrogation room, his mentally ill twin brother accused of murder.

"We know that you are who you say you are," Tony said, surprising Gibbs that he had taken the role of good cop. Gibbs had figured Tony would want to vent some of his anger. That he chose not to told Gibbs that DiNozzo thought this guy was innocent: Gibbs knew Tony hated going all Kojak on people unless he had to.

The relief was evident on Daniel's face as he started to stand. "Oh good, because—"

"Sit down," Gibbs barked, a hand slamming on the table. He waited until the man was sitting again, looking scared again. "Doesn't mean you didn't kill my Marine."

"Look, Daniel," Tony said, coming closer and giving Gibbs an annoyed look that certainly looked sincere enough. "Can I call you Daniel?"

"I'd rather call him a killer and get the hell outta here," Gibbs grumbled.

Daniel nodded at Tony, his eyes pleading silently.

"So Daniel," Tony said, leaning on the table and crowding Gibbs until the lead agent took the hint and got up. Tony slid into his vacated chair with a weary sigh. Also not faked, Gibbs figured, considering the dark circles under his agent's tired eyes. "We have a dead Marine. And all we want is to find whoever is responsible for killing him."

"My brother," Daniel said, watching Tony's face carefully.

"According to _your _mother," Gibbs cut in. He continued sarcastically, "A guy who just happens to look just like you."

"I didn't kill that man," Daniel protested, still focusing on Tony.

"I believe you," Tony said. He leaned forward and Gibbs saw his hand flutter upward toward his chest before falling back onto the table. "And believe me when I tell you we understand your brother is a very sick man, and all we want to do is help him—to find him before he hurts someone else. Or himself."

"He never hurts himself," Daniel said, sighing.

"That's good," Tony said, encouragingly. "But we do need to find him."

Daniel nodded. "How can I help?"

"Could start by telling us where he's hiding," Gibbs said sharply from his position by the mirror.

"I would," Daniel said, putting his knotted hands on the table. "But I don't know where he would go. We can never find him when he goes off his meds."

"How often does that happen?" Tony asked, sympathy in his tone.

Daniel sighed harshly. "More often than my mother likes to admit." He frowned, looking back at Tony's face. "It's so hard on her, you know? Dealing with a son who's that sick. When he stops taking his pills, he gets completely insane. Locks himself in his room and puts newspaper over the windows. He thinks the Internet was invented to read people's minds. And there's no bargaining with him when he's like that. I once had to hit him over the head because he was walking around with a knife, threatening to kill us all if we didn't smash the computer to keep the Internet away from him. He has a scar on the back of head, behind his left ear—it's visible when his hair is short, like it is now."

"Good, Daniel," Tony said soothingly. "That's good."

"That's crap," Gibbs snorted, approaching the table with menace in his eyes. "Still doesn't tell us where this dirtbag is."

Tony turned suddenly and glared. "Lay off, Gibbs. Would you?" he said, turning back to Daniel. "He's just worried about his brother, right, Daniel?"

Daniel nodded enthusiastically, looking afraid of Gibbs. "That's right." He swallowed nervously. "And there's something else. Ryan is also diabetic. He doesn't take his insulin when he's like this, and he could die without it. Please, you just have to find him."

"You realize we'll be charging him with murder once we do?" Gibbs asked, as if this brother were crazy, too.

"Listen, Agent Gibbs," Daniel said, looking at his hands. "Ryan has done a lot of dumb things. And I'd always take the blame for him because I knew he was sick. But this isn't like that. He killed someone. And you need to find him before he does it again."


	6. Chapter 6

"Nice job in there," Gibbs said once they were out in the hall. "I forget how good you are at playing up the sympathy."

The rare praise barely registered and Tony just shrugged.

Gibbs tried again, knowing he was playing with fire but determined not to give Tony the undeserved punishment he so desperately seemed to want. "Bet Daniel believed you were pissed at me."

"You were badgering a cooperating witness," Tony said icily.

Gibbs smiled. "Come on, Tony. You know as well as I do that he's hiding something."

There was a slight thaw in green eyes and Tony's mouth twitched in an almost-smile. "You think he knows where his brother is?"

"Think he knows more than he's telling us."

"Why didn't you ask how he just happened to show up at the scene?" Tony asked, his tone more normal without the simmering anger that had been there all day. "I was waiting for it."

Gibbs blinked in surprise. He winced and gave DiNozzo a sheepish smile. "Didn't think about it," he admitted. He didn't admit that it was because he was too busy worrying about Tony.

DiNozzo shrugged. "Mother said she was supposed to meet them both for lunch at that restaurant across the street. Ryan disappeared sometime last night though—off his meds again, apparently—but they decided to meet without him to see if he showed up."

"So you were waiting for me to ask even though you knew the answer?" he asked, mildly amused.

"You didn't know I knew," Tony said simply.

"Nice job," Gibbs said again, realizing it was the wrong thing to say when the shutters slammed down in Tony's eyes again.

They walked into the squad room and Gibbs bit back a frustrated growl when Tony went straight to his desk without a word to his teammates.

"Whaddaya got?" Gibbs barked, making his junior agents jump at his harsh tone.

"Nothing, Boss," McGee said after a flurry of tapping keys. "Ryan's off the grid. No cell phone, no credit or debit cards. No utilities because he lives at home and no place of employment."

"I contacted local hospitals and clinics in case he shows up," Ziva said. "I also contacted his psychiatrist and informed him of the situation."

McGee glanced at his phone. "Abby said no GSR on Daniel's hands or clothing."

"And Ducky said no prints on the body," Ziva said, shaking her head.

Gibbs frowned at the new information—or lack thereof—but he didn't speak.

"I'll update the BOLO with the scar," Tony said, sounding exhausted after a long night followed by a long day.

Gibbs nodded at his people, unable to think of anything else that could be done. He swallowed a sigh, hating that there was nothing to do but sit and wait—and try to make things right with his still-upset agent.

"Send Mrs. Jordan home with a pair of agents from the pool," Gibbs said as he sank into his chair.

"And Daniel?" Ziva asked.

Gibbs frowned again—as if he had ever stopped. "Cut him loose."

"Gibbs," Tony said, looking up sharply. "You just said he's hiding something."

"You see the way he was never two steps from his mother until we separated them?" Gibbs asked pointedly.

Tony nodded, but his eyes were still hard. "And if he runs straight to his brother?"

"He'll go home with his mother," Gibbs said confidently.

Tony sighed. "And with the agents we're sending with her," he grudgingly agreed. "What do we do now?"

"Go home," Gibbs answered. He looked directly at Tony. "All of you."

McGee and Ziva nodded, gathering their things and walking to the elevator without a word, both having sensed the tension between Gibbs and Tony all day, if the speed with which the two junior agents fled was any indication.

Gibbs waited for the elevator doors to close before leaning back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head until aching vertebrae popped in blessed relief. He knew Tony was waiting for him to snap at him so he just leaned forward, elbows on his desk, and studied his agent's tired face.

"You want a ride?" Gibbs asked softly.

"I can get myself home," Tony said crisply, making no move to get up.

Gibbs just glanced at his watch. "You should get going then," he said, no trace of an order in his voice. "You must be exhausted."

"I'm fine," came the expected reply.

Gibbs just watched him turn back to his screen.

He waited.

He got nothing.

"All right, DiNozzo. You win," he finally said, watching Tony turn wary, tired eyes on him. "I give. Why do you so desperately want me to be mad at you?"

Tony's eyes went back to the screen and the agent stayed silent.

"Already told you there's no reason for you to punish yourself," Gibbs said, his tone neutral. "And there's no reason for me to punish you either."

Tony didn't look at him.

"I meant it when I said you did everything you could," Gibbs tried again, reaching down deep for patience. He remembered Ducky's words and said, "Not everyone can be saved, Tony."

Only Gibbs' experience and familiarity with his agent allowed him to catch the anguish in the green eyes avoiding his steady gaze. But still Tony did not speak.

Gibbs tried a more direct approach, getting up and moving to sit on the edge of Tony's desk. He tried not to wince at the wariness he saw and simply watched Tony fight not to fidget. "Talk to me, DiNozzo," he said, going back to last names but not even coming close to an order. "Please." He paused, letting the rare word fully sink in. "Will you just talk to me?"

The only sound was of the pencil Tony tapped against the back of his left hand, which rested curled in a fist on his desk.

"Please?" Gibbs said again.

"Stop it," Tony said, his anger evident as the pencil snapped in his hand. He threw the pieces onto the desk and looked up, finally meeting Gibbs' eyes. "I don't want to talk. But we can go settle this downstairs if you want."

Gibbs shook his head, surprising his coldly furious agent. "No, DiNozzo," he said firmly. "I'm not sparring with you tonight."

"Why the hell not?" Tony demanded, getting up and stalking away to lean against Ziva's empty desk.

"Because," Gibbs said, "you're looking for a punishment and I'm not about to give you one you don't deserve."

Tony gave him a confused look, but Gibbs didn't buy it for a second.

But still he explained, "You'd let me hurt you, Tony. And as much as you think you want that, or deserve that, or _need _that, I won't do it. Because you don't deserve it."

Gibbs stepped away and allowed Tony to silently gather his things. He waited until his agent was standing in front of the elevator to speak, his voice carrying through the silent squad room.

"I know you feel responsible for Kevin, and I know you're angry. But you wanna be pissed at someone, be pissed at me. I'm the one who misread your code."


	7. Chapter 7

Gibbs left a voicemail with DiNozzo—not even remotely surprised he didn't answer his midnight call—and told him he didn't need to come into the office since all there was to do was wait.

Neither was he surprised when Tony showed up only a few minutes after he got in that morning. Gibbs couldn't tell if Tony's bloodshot eyes were from booze or a lack of sleep or both, but he knew his agent looked like hell.

"Didn't get my message?" Gibbs asked mildly.

"I got it," was all Tony said.

Gibbs nearly sighed, realizing how much he missed Tony's joking and light-hearted antics. The job was never easy, but the humor had always made it more bearable. Gibbs watched Ziva and McGee file in silently and he knew it was going to be another long day. He studied them both, wondering if he should ask one of them to talk to Tony.

But then he dismissed it. First, because it was his problem—his fuckup—and he never asked anyone to fix his mistakes. And second, because he knew DiNozzo would see right through it and just be more pissed off.

The phone on Tony's desk rang, and four pairs of eyes snapped toward it. He picked it up, listened for a moment, and then looked at Gibbs. "Abby—"

All three popped to their feet, but Tony just shook his head. "She said she wants to talk to me." He threw a challenging look at Gibbs. "Sounds personal," he said, his light tone contrasting sharply with the look.

Gibbs knew Tony wanted him to say no, to snap at him to deal with personal issues on his own time. So Gibbs just smiled and nodded. "Sure, Tony," he said, watching DiNozzo's eyes narrow at him. "Take your time."

Tony practically stalked out of the room, and Gibbs wasn't surprised when McGee approached his desk cautiously.

"Gibbs—"

"He's going through a rough patch," Gibbs cut him off, not looking up until he realized the shadow wasn't going away. He met McGee's eyes, read the question in them, and tried to keep the resignation out of his voice. "Just watch his back, McGee. It's all we can do."

* * *

Tony steeled himself as he walked into Abby's lab.

He knew the scientist had picked up on his frostiness toward Gibbs, and he also knew Abby wouldn't put up with his mistreatment of her silver fox for long. As it was, he was surprised she had waited until morning. He winced, thinking about the many missed calls on his cell and machine at home.

He stood in the doorway and listened to the soft, sad sounds coming from the player, feeling instantly guilty because he knew it was his fault she was listening to the melancholy music. So he tried to prepare himself for the onslaught, even though he wasn't sure he could take her disappointment and anger on top of everything else. He knew Gibbs was upset with him—if not for Kevin's death then for not being able to shake it off. And what was worse was that Gibbs was being nice to him, masking his annoyance with calm kindness that Tony knew he didn't deserve. And didn't know how to deal with.

Tony snapped out of his thoughts as Abby approached him, slowly and with uncharacteristic trepidation. She paused in front of him—only to step closer and hug him gently. Her arms were clamped around his waist instead of around his neck as usual, and he wondered if it was because this was not a normal "I missed you so much!" exuberant hug or because of the wound in his neck. Having steeled himself for anger, Tony found himself totally unprepared for her kindness and he blinked away the tears that came to his eyes at her readily offered comfort, at the sudden, unexpected solace he found in her arms.

"I'm so sorry, Tony," she whispered, her face against his shoulder as if she somehow knew her breath on his neck would only dredge bad memories and hurt him. She was even careful not to put pressure on his still badly bruised chest, making him wonder if a summons from Ducky would be coming next. "I'm so, so sorry."

He began to shake in her arms, and he felt the sudden need to spill everything that had happened in a rush of words and pain and snot and tears. Even worse, he knew she would understand.

So he pulled back, feeling physical pain at the loss of her warm embrace, the ache in his chest having nothing to do with getting shot so recently. He saw the questions in her eyes—and also the hurt.

It was definitely more than he could take.

"Tony, please!" she called to his back as he walked quickly toward the door.

He stopped but didn't turn.

"Please," she said again, the pain in her voice echoing the agony thrumming through his entire being. "Don't shut us out, Tony. Not all of us. You can give Gibbs the cold shoulder, and I'll understand. Because he was there that night, and I can imagine that even looking at any reminder of that poor little boy is hurting you right now. But we just want to be here for you—all of us. But if all you can handle is one of us, will you please let it be me? I love you, Tony. You're my best friend, and I can't stand to see you in pain like this. Please just let me be here?"

He turned slowly, watching her approach just as carefully. She stopped right in front of him, looking slightly up into his anguished green eyes with matching pain in hers. He swallowed hard and stepped back into the hug she was offering.

"You have no idea how bad I wanted to do this yesterday," she said softly, her face pressed to his shoulder again.

He forced his eyes open, banishing the terrified little boy he hadn't been able to save.

"Yeah, Abbs. I think I do."

They stayed that way for a long moment, until Tony pulled back and checked his watch. "I should get going before Gibbs bites my head off for taking so long."

Abby gave him an odd look. "Isn't that what you want from him?" she asked.

He had no idea where she had gotten her intel, but he wasn't surprised that it was dead-on. "It's weird when he's nice," he said. "And I don't understand it. I failed. He should be pissed at me."

She looked at him with something like horror. "Tony, are you insane?" she asked, gaping at him. "I know you did everything you could."

"You weren't there," Tony said, turning away.

Abby simply marched around him, big black boots noisy on the tile floor. She ducked down slightly and looked up into his eyes as he stared at the floor. "It was you, DiNozzo," she said, slightly exasperated. "And I know you would have done absolutely everything possible for that boy. So don't give me any crap, okay? I'm worried about you." She paused. "And so is Gibbs."

"That why he's being so nice?"

"And because he _was _there, Tony," Abby said. "If you had fucked up, don't you think he'd be ripping you a new one instead of trying to help you through this? Gibbs doesn't tolerate failure. You know that. And you didn't fail that little boy. Life did."

"So I should just get over it, right?"

Abby sighed, putting a hand on his arm and waiting until he looked at her. "No, Tony. You should let us take care of you while you figure out how to get through it. Let us help you figure that out. And stop being pissed when we try to be gentle with you. You didn't do anything wrong and you don't deserve harsh treatment." She gave him a half-smile. "So stop baiting Gibbs and trying to get him to give it to you. Because he will, eventually, and then I'll have to drag him down here when he feels bad about it."

Tony was quiet a moment, simply soaking up the comfort of Abby's touch. He sighed. "You think I should apologize to him for being such an ass?"

She rolled her eyes. "Hell no. Just try to be normal," she suggested. A smile lit her face. "See how many movie references it takes before he headslaps you."

He hesitated, and Abby saw it. "Hey," she said, smiling sadly this time and touching his face. "I know it feels wrong to try to be normal after what happened, but you're good at faking it, DiNozzo. Keep faking it until you don't have to anymore. It's okay to recover from something like this. It doesn't make you a bad person for moving on with your life—it makes you a brave one."

Tony hugged her again and pressed his lips to her pale forehead. "Has anyone ever told you you're really smart, Abbs?"

She sighed dramatically. "Not nearly enough." She poked him in the arm. "Say it again?"

He smiled genuinely for the first time since the tragedy. "You're really smart, Abbs." He turned for the door, but stopped halfway and looked back at her. "Thanks, Abby."


	8. Chapter 8

Tony returned to the squad room to find McGee and Ziva strapping on their weapons and Gibbs hanging up his phone.

"Good timing," Gibbs said, noting Tony's slightly more relaxed posture and wondering if Abby had solved all his problems for him. It wouldn't be the first time. "Think you were right about the brother. He skipped sometime last night."

There was a little flash of pleasure and Tony smiled, making Gibbs seriously consider buying Abby a tanker truck of Caf-Pow!

"Maybe he'll lead us to Ryan," Tony said, grabbing his gun and following his team to the elevator.

Gibbs frowned and said, "Left his cell at the house."

McGee lifted his laptop case. "But if he uses a credit or debit card anywhere in the country, I'll know about it."

"And perhaps the mother will know where Daniel would hide his brother," Ziva said.

Tony slid into the elevator and hit the down button, frowning thoughtfully. "Do we know Ryan is the actual killer?"

"His own mother ID'd him," McGee said. "That's pretty strong evidence."

Tony winced as he thought back to the interview, trying to remember specific words instead of the fog of pain he had been in. He willed away the images of Kevin—both alive and frightened _and_ dead and broken—and tried to concentrate.

"DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked, concern in his eyes but his tone mild.

Tony shook his head. "She showed me a photo of Ryan, but she said, 'I watched my son kill that man'. I figured she meant Ryan—"

"Because you didn't know about the twin brother," Gibbs finished for him.

The team headed out to the car, still tossing theories that yesterday's tense silence had prevented.

"What if she realized you thought she meant Ryan," McGee said, sliding into the backseat and pulling out the laptop. "And then she just went with it."

"Ryan's life was already hell," Ziva said, picking up the thread. "Perhaps his mother thought he would be better off in a hospital?"

"If that's true," Tony said, "then both a killer and an unmedicated paranoid schizophrenic are in the wind."

"Or they're one and the same," Gibbs said, going back to the original theory.

"Right. Now we just need to find out which," Tony said, flinching and grabbing the door handle as Gibbs cut off a dump truck while pulling into traffic. He flicked a glance at Gibbs. "As long as you don't kill us all on the way, Boss."

Gibbs and McGee both smiled, but Ziva just lifted a shoulder. "I see nothing wrong with your driving, Gibbs," she said, her hands folded lightly on her lap.

"You wouldn't," McGee said, his smile dying as he winced at a guardrail flashing by only inches from the car. He glanced sideways at Ziva. "You almost took out that same guardrail last week."

"I was in a hurry," she defended with another shrug.

McGee gave her a look. "We were going to lunch."

She smiled. "I was hungry."

Gibbs turned to tell them to knock it off, but he caught the half-smile on Tony's face and held his tongue, wondering again what Abby had said. He realized he'd probably never know—not that it mattered: Whatever words Abby had said to soothe Tony's wounded spirit would likely have ruffled feathers coming from him. That realization made Gibbs wonder if this calming of Tony's emotional storm would be a lasting one.

His thoughts returned to the case as he pulled up outside the Jordans' modest, one-story brick home. He got out of the car, slamming the door slightly and thinking about how to deal with the useless agents inside.

"I'll take Mullins and Thompson," Tony said, naming those agents, "if you wanna take the mother, Boss."

"Take McGee with you," Gibbs said, catching the amused glint in his senior agent's eye. Yeah, he was getting his Tony back—if not all at once, at least progress was being made.

Gibbs entered the house first and found Samantha Jordan sitting on a piano bench in the living room. The instrument behind her was old but obviously well-loved, and Gibbs felt the familiar ache that grabbed him whenever he thought of Kelly—this time beaming at him as she finished her last practice session before her big recital. He felt a stab of pain when he realized that was the last time he had ever watched her play. But he shook it off; just because DiNozzo had started shaking off the black dogs didn't mean he could succumb to them.

Fortunately, Samantha stood then and slipped into hostess mode, offering them seats and drinks. He and Ziva took the seats, declined the drinks, and Gibbs began the questioning after getting those pleasantries out of the way.

"Which of your sons killed my Marine?" he asked bluntly.

Samantha's eyes went wide, flicking between Gibbs and Ziva, but no one spoke. Her eyes closed again and she shook slightly as she said. "Ryan."

"Then where is your son Daniel?" Gibbs asked, trying to keep the harshness toned down so he wouldn't frighten her into silence. He realized he probably should have ignored Tony's subtle suggestion and just went and ripped into those agents. It would have served multiple purposes: The agents would learn a lesson; Gibbs would be able to vent some of his frustration over the events of the weekend; and Tony would probably be a lot better at handling this broken woman.

"I… I don't know," Samantha whispered, her faded blue eyes on the faded green carpet.

"Do you think he is with Ryan?" Ziva asked, her tone gentle as she tried to connect with the woman when she really wanted to smack the answers out of her. "Perhaps Ryan made contact with him and Daniel is just trying to protect his brother?"

Samantha just stared at her hands.

Gibbs opened his mouth, but McGee and Tony returned, obviously having heard Ziva's question.

"That jives with what Mullins and Thompson said." Tony moved to stand in front of the shaking mother. "The phone rang around midnight. Daniel answered it, and then he was gone, right?" He crouched down in front of the bench, taking trembling hands in his and looking up into tortured eyes. "Did Daniel talk to you before he left?"

Samantha bit her lip and looked away.

"The agents saw Daniel for the last time right after that call," Tony said, still holding Samantha's hands. "They said it sounded like a wrong number, but it wasn't, was it?"

Samantha just sighed.

"Then Daniel said he was going to bed," Tony continued, his tone soothing, never accusing. "But he didn't, did he?"

Samantha gave in a little and shook her head.

"Did he come talk to you?" DiNozzo asked, silently thanking his team for realizing what he knew: One word from any of them would break the spell and they wouldn't get anything. It was as if Samantha Jordan had recognized a kindred spirit in him the previous morning and felt comfortable only with him.

"No," Samantha whispered, barely audible.

Tony just waited, sensing more.

"But I heard him clicking away on his computer," she said softly, flinching when McGee jumped up and headed down the hall.

"Samantha," Tony said, searching blue eyes, "tell me who killed that Marine."

Tears slipped down wrinkled, pale cheeks, and Samantha shook her head. "I don't know," she said, sniffling as she met Tony's eyes. "I just don't know. I know I'm their mother and I should be able to tell them apart but…"

"But what?" Tony asked gently.

Samantha sighed wearily again. "He was wearing that godawful bright yellow shirt with the smiley face on it. I hate that shirt. But he loves it—wears it for days at a time when he's off his medication." A helpless look flooded her watery eyes. "I could never get him to change it, though. Or let me wash it for him."

"Samantha," Tony said again, firmly but still gently. "So it was Ryan who killed that man?"

"Daniel would get so mad at him," she continued as if he hadn't spoken. "But it was only because he worried about him. When they were in school, Ryan would get made fun of so bad. He would come home crying, and Daniel would come home angry. And I'd get so confused, I'd just sit up at night and cry, wondering what to do for my boy."

Gibbs and Tony exchanged a glance, but Gibbs let his agent continue.

"Daniel heard you sometimes, didn't he?" Tony asked softly. He waited for her to nod. "And he knew why you were so upset?"

She dabbed at her eyes with a sodden tissue and nodded. "He…" She drew a shaky breath. "Daniel asked me once why I didn't put Ryan in a hospital. I told him it was because Ryan wasn't an animal and didn't deserve to be locked up."

Her voice was soft and faraway, but Tony asked, already sensing the answer, "How long ago was that?"

Tears fell down her cheeks and she whispered, "Last week." She shook her head, lifting her eyes to Tony's. "But then he came to me over the weekend and said I was right, that Ryan didn't deserve to be locked up like an animal. That we needed to take care of Ryan because he was family. Daniel said he knew how much Ryan means to me and that he knew I could never lock him away for no reason." She smiled feebly. "He said he wanted to take us to lunch to make it up to me."

Tony shot another glance at Gibbs but then looked back as Samantha sniffled. "But then he… then _Ryan_ showed up. And he killed that man…"

"Samantha," Tony said, taking her hands again. "It wasn't really Ryan, though, was it? He wasn't the one who killed that man, was he?"

A tiny sob broke free of Samantha's quivering lips and she pulled her hands from Tony's and put them to her mouth, shaking her head hard. "No," she gasped, but Tony wasn't sure if she was answering or protesting.

"Daniel was right, you know," he said, moving from his crouch to join her on the piano bench. "Ryan doesn't deserve to be locked up. Especially not for something he didn't do."

"It was Ryan's shirt," Samantha said, sounding lost and confused.

"But?" Tony asked, knowing she was holding back, that she wasn't nearly as confused as she probably wanted to be.

"But there was no scar on his head," she said in a rush, as if letting open the floodgates.

"You watched Daniel kill the Marine, didn't you?" Tony asked.

"But Daniel hated that shirt so much," she said, disbelieving.

"The only reason he would wear it is so you would think he was Ryan," Tony said, putting voice to the words she couldn't. "It's why Daniel insisted you meet him at the restaurant instead of picking you up. Did he call you? Tell you he was going to be late? He asked you to wait outside for him, didn't he?"

She nodded. "I thought it was a little strange because it was so cold, but now I know…" She turned suddenly, gripping Tony's hand in hers and looking him in the eyes. "I love him. I love _both _of my boys. I never…"

He knew what she was implying and he patted her hand with his free one. "I know, Samantha. This isn't your fault. You can't hold yourself responsible for someone else's actions."

Gibbs cleared his throat and Tony met his eyes, realizing what he had said. He gave his boss a nod, thanking all things holy that he had Gibbs watching his back. It was an odd feeling, realizing he wasn't alone.

"We need to find your son," Gibbs said, finally speaking up. "Both of your sons. Do you have any idea where they would go?"

"I think I can answer that, Boss," McGee said, returning to the room with an excited grin. "For at least one of them. I found a deleted search for hotels in Aberdeen, Maryland."

Tony turned back to Samantha. "Did Daniel take Ryan there? Is Daniel meeting his brother at that hotel?"

"Daniel said he didn't know where Ryan was," Samantha said, and Tony believed her, based on the fear in her eyes, no doubt for her sick, missing son.

Gibbs nodded at the team. "Let's go."

They headed for the door, only to be stopped by Samantha's soft call. "Wait."

They all turned but only Tony moved closer.

"There's a cabin. It belonged to their father. In Shenandoah, near Front Royal. I think Ryan might have gone there." She bit her lip as tears flooded her tired eyes. "I didn't mention it before because I was afraid of sending a bunch of agents after him. I couldn't make his worst nightmare come to life."

Tony nodded his understanding and thanked her sincerely as she wrote down directions. There was no reason to berate the woman now. She was suffering enough already, and Tony knew, despite his own childhood, despite the tragedy at the Harris house, that most parents would do anything to protect their children. He took the paper and squeezed her hand. "We'll find them."

She nodded back and returned to the piano bench.

As the team left the house, the opening bars of "Amazing Grace" could be heard floating softly out into the cold, bright morning.


	9. Chapter 9

The agents got back in the car, all breathing faint sighs of relief at escaping the winter chill. But no one was thinking of going home to a cup of hot chocolate and a warm house.

"So who went where?" McGee asked.

"Or are they together?" Tony tossed out.

Ziva leaned forward a bit from her place in the backseat. "You do not believe Samantha was telling the truth about what Daniel told her?"

"I believe he told her he didn't know where Ryan is," Tony said, ignoring the ache in his chest to turn backward in his seat. "And I believe she believed him."

"But you don't believe him," Gibbs finished.

Tony turned back and shrugged. "I don't know." He closed his eyes for a second while Gibbs started the car to head back to the Navy Yard. "But I do know Ryan didn't make the search for the hotel."

Gibbs nodded as he pulled back onto the interstate. "Because he hates computers," he said, remembering Daniel's words in interrogation.

"Or Daniel made that up," Tony said, sighing softly. "We can't take anything he said at face value."

"The mother confirmed the computer thing," McGee said, looking up from the laptop. "She mentioned it when you were in with Daniel."

"Oh, right," Ziva said, nodding. "She said Ryan would be terrified being surrounded by all the computers in the squad room, but Daniel would be in heaven."

"If he knows computers," McGee said, tapping his finger in thought, "then he probably knew we'd find the hotel search."

"You think it's a misdirect?" Gibbs asked, drawing a shrug from his agent.

"Could be," McGee said. "Or he likes computers but doesn't know much about them."

They rode for a moment in silence before Gibbs slammed to a stop at a red light at the last possible moment, making all of his passengers reach out for the nearest available surface to steady themselves. Gibbs caught Tony's wince and shot him a rare apologetic look.

"We know one thing Daniel said in interrogation was true," Gibbs said, frowning tightly.

Tony nodded. "He took the blame for a lot of things Ryan did when they were kids."

"So now it's payback time," Gibbs agreed.

"I can't believe a brother would set up his own sibling for murder," McGee said, wincing as he remembered his feelings of frustration and helplessness when his sister was caught up in a murder case.

"His own twin," Ziva said, shaking her head. "I cannot imagine a stronger bond, a greater love."

"Loves his mother more," Gibbs said.

"Daniel thought Ryan was ruining his mom's life," Tony said, remembering the anguish in Samantha's eyes as she spoke of sitting up late, crying and wondering what to do for her boys. He ignored his own memories of being that child awakened by his mother's soft sobs—and the helplessness that came with those blurred recollections.

Gibbs pulled into the NCIS lot and flicked a glance at the mirror. "McGee, take Ziva and go check out the cabin. We're going to Aberdeen. You two arrest anyone you find there, got it?"

Ziva frowned, her hand on the door handle. "And if it is Ryan?"

"Identical twins," Gibbs reminded, impatient.

"But we can check for the scar," Ziva countered.

Gibbs gave his watch a death-glare and opened his mouth, but Tony spoke instead.

"The info on the scar and the relationship came from the family," Tony explained. "The _impartial_ witness identified the face—which they share."

"So Ryan could still be the shooter?" McGee asked. He cocked his head thoughtfully, nodding. "There _was_ no GSR on Daniel when we brought him in."

"But Daniel probably ditched the yellow shirt—and the gloves he was wearing," Tony said, realizing he should have picked up on the gloves but no jacket detail much sooner. He glanced at Gibbs' leg, which was starting to twitch at the delay. "Let's bring 'em both in and sort it out later."

"But first we gotta find 'em," Gibbs said. "So if you're done?"

"Done, Boss," McGee said, practically scrambling from the car with Ziva quickly following suit.

Their doors were barely closed when Gibbs shoved the car into gear and put his foot to the floor, sending them on their way to catch a killer.

* * *

They were barely ten miles out of the District when Gibbs finally broke the uncomfortable silence.

"Speak, DiNozzo."

Tony didn't say a word, but Gibbs could practically see the thoughts churning in his head and he wondered if the anger would be back when his agent finally did open his mouth.

They were halfway to Aberdeen—about an hour into the trip—when Tony finally spoke.

"Fine, I'll play," he said, as if he hadn't been ignoring a direct command for such a long period of time. "Why did you want me with you instead of McGee or Ziva?"

_Because I almost lost you two days ago, and I don't want to let you out of my sight. _Gibbs had known the question was coming and he kicked himself for not having ready an answer he could actually put voice to. He thought about giving Tony the truth but settled for, "You're hurt." He saw Tony bristle and Gibbs went on, gruffly, "Wanted you where I could keep an eye on you."

DiNozzo nodded in one tight movement. "Oh."

Gibbs couldn't read any emotion in that single syllable so he cast a sidelong glance at his agent—one that Tony apparently misread along with the words.

"So you didn't trust me to have their backs," Tony said, eyes on the bright scenes flying by outside the car.

Gibbs tried not to sigh. He took his eyes off the road for a moment and said, "No, DiNozzo. I wanted to be absolutely certain someone had yours." He looked again at the traffic on the interstate and added, "Only one way to do that."

A glance to the right showed Tony looking more tired than angry, but neither agent spoke as they sped toward their destination—toward a suspected murderer.

Many miles later, Tony let out a bone-weary sigh and said, "I'm sorry, Boss." He held up a hand. "And don't yell at me for apologizing. I actually do hate it when you're pissed at me."

Gibbs gave him a wry smile, and Tony laughed for the first time in what felt like an eternity. It still felt wrong, having so recently held a murdered little boy in his arms, but he remembered Abby's words and tried to keep smiling.

"Okay, when you're _actually _pissed at me."

Gibbs' smile widened for a second before he released a weary breath of his own. "While we're breaking rules, I should probably say—"

"Gibbs, don't," Tony cut him off, the smile instantly gone. But there was no anger in his voice. Only pain.

And Gibbs heard it. And though he knew Tony was still hurting over the lost little boy, he also knew there were still words that needed to be said. He took a more indirect route to an apology and said, "I misread your code—"

"_Please,_" Tony said, half-choking on the plea, his hand moving to his chest as the emotional trauma of that night reawakened his physical pain. He took a breath to steady himself and said, "You don't have to—"

"Tony," Gibbs said firmly. "We're a team. And a team needs to trust each other."

Tony shifted uncomfortably and said, "It was a simple miscommunication." His hand tightened on the door handle as they both lamented that the simple miscommunication had cost a young boy his life.

"Well, yeah," Gibbs said, huffing out a puff of air and wishing again he were better at offering comfort. "I was speaking sniper and you were speaking cop. It's like me throwing out Russian and you trying to answer in Italian. It just didn't work."

Tony was quiet for a moment before turning to watch Gibbs' profile. His eyes went bright and he said softly, "Kevin still died." He closed his eyes and looked away, practically whispering, "Still hard not to blame myself." Those green eyes popped open again as images of blood and broken bone seared his closed lids. He swiped at his face, feeling again the warm stickiness of the boy's blood on his chilled skin, the stinging in his wounded neck nowhere near the crushing pain that had consumed his entire being as he had registered that crack of gunfire—and the too-small corpse in his arms.

"Hey," Gibbs said, needing only that one word to snap Tony back into the present. Gibbs knew as well as anyone how consuming painful memories could be, and he wished he had some sort of advice for Tony on how to escape the looped reels of terror and tragedy.

Tony nodded his thanks, and they rode in silence for many miles.

"I blame myself, too, ya know," Gibbs offered quietly as they reached Aberdeen's city limits. He didn't wait for Tony to speak and continued, his voice slightly strained with the guilt of his admission, "All those mentions of 'red' you were giving… You were begging me for help and I thought you wanted more time. I'm sorry I didn't give you the help you needed, DiNozzo."

"Thanks," Tony said softly, verbalizing his gratitude this time because he knew the gravity of receiving an apology from Gibbs.

Gibbs guided the car to a stop at a red light in the middle of the busy city, the silence hanging slightly awkwardly in the small confines of the sedan.

"Soooo," Tony said, giving a tiny smile and feeling like his world was slowly righting itself. Again remembering Abby's advice, he said, "Should we make a chart or something to hand out to the team? Codeword 'red' doesn't red-light the sharpshooters. It means emergency. We could add more colors. Abby would like that—maybe she could make the chart. Codeword 'green' means everything's peachy. Or would that be code peach? Huh. Hey, code yellow could be for 'Probie's about to piss his pants.' "

Gibbs rolled his eyes and reached over to give DiNozzo a quick headslap.

Tony smoothed a hand over his hair and frowned as they pulled up to the hotel's main office. "I have no codeword for that, Boss."

"Good," Gibbs said with a grin. "It's always better when you don't see 'em coming."


	10. Chapter 10

Gibbs and Tony entered the El Paradiso Motel—and both about gagged at the stench.

"Doesn't exactly smell like _el paradiso_," Tony muttered, drawing a bemused half-smile from Gibbs, who approached the counter hoping to get a room number and then get the hell out of there.

He stopped, though, deferring to DiNozzo when he saw the clerk was a Hispanic teen with a small child on each knee and a textbook in front of her on the cracked, flamingo-pink countertop. The children jabbered away in Spanish, and Gibbs saw Tony steadfastly avoiding looking at their small smiling faces and happy animation.

Gibbs wondered if Kevin would forever haunt Tony's interactions with kids, much like Kelly haunted his. He hoped not, feeling an odd flash of fleeting premonition: Tony's kids calling him "Uncle G" at a backyard barbeque.

"My name is Tony," DiNozzo said in Spanish, looking directly at the young woman and flashing a charming smile. He nodded at the little boy on the left without looking at the child. "I think your little brother needs a diaper change."

The girl's eyes went wide as she blushed. "I'm so sorry," she said, answering in the same language. "I have this cold and I can't smell anything…"

Tony grinned. "Lucky you."

The girl smiled back, setting the boy on his feet. "Go find Mama, okay?" she said, barely stopping herself from giving the boy a pat on the rear end to send him off to a door behind the counter. She was still smiling—and still blushing—when she turned back to Tony. "My name is Lucia. How can I help you?"

DiNozzo pulled out a color copy of the Jordans' drivers license photos, their twin features printed side by side on the single sheet of paper. "Have you seen either of these men?"

She blinked at him, her eyes dropping to the textbook in front of her before coming back up to meet his with confusion. "Is this a trick? They're the same," she said, looking back and forth between the agents.

Gibbs didn't speak, only half-understanding the foreign words. But he didn't ask them to switch to English, either. He figured the girl spoke it, considering the textbook, but he also trusted Tony to get what they needed.

"They're twins," Tony said, his smile reassuring. "Have you seen them? Either of them? Or both?"

Lucia's nod had both agents' pulses picking up, and Gibbs didn't need to know the language to understand the quiet fear in the girl's eyes as she realized they were law enforcement looking for a suspect—one that she had interacted with.

"He's in room 208," she said quietly, shifting the remaining child in her lap to retrieve a key from a pegboard beside her. "He checked in alone," she said, leaning forward to place the key in Tony's hand and study the photos more closely. She met Tony's eyes again and said, apologetically, "I don't know which one."

"It's okay," Tony said, giving the girl's hand a squeeze as he took the key. He kept smiling, even as he felt something twist hard inside of him at the sight of the small child who would grow up to experience everything Kevin Harris wouldn't. It made him wonder if he would always feel this way around kids. "Did the man have a scar? Here," Tony said, pointing to the location of Ryan's.

Lucia frowned. "I couldn't tell. He wore a hat both times he came in here." She shuddered, obviously scared—though slightly curious, too—of what the man had done.

Tony didn't tell her he was a murderer. Instead, he said, "Don't worry about it. Can you tell me how he was acting when he came in?"

Another frown tugged at Lucia's full lips. "Nervous. He didn't say much, and he kept looking out the windows."

DiNozzo noted the old-fashioned register book—and lack of a computer—and he thanked her, glanced at Gibbs to see if he wanted to add anything and got a shake of the head in return. The agents started toward the door.

"Wait," Lucia said, biting her lip and looking so nervous Tony wondered if she was going to ask for his number. But then she glanced at Gibbs and switched to English. "He checked out already. About ten minutes ago."

Tony swallowed his curse at the thought of their quarry being so close—and now gone.

But Lucia continued, "He came back, though. He said he forgot something in his room. You just missed him but he has to be in the room. He hasn't brought the key back yet."

Tony felt his suddenly pounding heart jump up into his throat as his eyes went from the window to the little boy in Lucia's lap. He moved toward them so quickly that Lucia jumped in surprise as he took her arm and walked her to the door she had sent the child through earlier. Tony kept his body between them and motel's entrance as Gibbs went to look out of the window.

"Is there another exit?" Tony asked urgently.

Lucia nodded in wordless fear.

"I need you to get your family out of the building," he said, speaking calmly but firmly. "Get everyone out from back there but don't go knocking on guests' doors, okay? Call the police. Tell them NCIS has an armed suspect in room 208 here at the motel, okay? Can you do that?"

Lucia nodded.

"Lucia?" DiNozzo said, making sure she was still with him.

"Yes," she said. "Call the police. NCIS. Armed suspect. I got it."

"Thank you," Tony said, continuing to shield her and the child from the entrance. "Go."

The door closed behind them, and DiNozzo followed Gibbs out of the office, both agents running to try to catch the suspect before he left the motel room and put an unsuspecting guest in danger. They knew Lucia could have checked in the innocent brother, but the agents weren't taking any chances as they ran up the stairs and down the exterior corridor, stopping to flank the bright-pink door to room 208. Tony was crouched at the window but he pointed to his eyes and gave Gibbs a negative shake of the head, telling him he couldn't see inside. It was also possible the killer had seen them enter the office and had taken off, but Gibbs just gave DiNozzo a nod.

Tony reached up and slid the key soundlessly into the lock while Gibbs slowly turned the knob. They swept the small, empty room quickly, their eyes meeting upon seeing the closed bathroom door. The agents moved to the door, stepping carefully over snack wrappers and empty soda cans as they came to stand at opposite sides of the door.

"Federal agents!" Gibbs called. "You in there, Jordan?"

They were met with silence, but no words were needed to agree that someone was in the room. Tony tapped his nose, and Gibbs nodded, indicating he smelled the blood, too. Gibbs put his hand on the knob as DiNozzo crouched as low as possible with his long legs.

Tony took a breath and realized he was suddenly terrified their suspect had somehow grabbed the little boy from downstairs and was now holding him hostage—or had already killed him. Heart racing, Tony squeezed his eyes shut, feeling Gibbs' gaze on him. Green eyes snapped open and Tony nodded at Gibbs, who nodded back just before shoving the door open, the thin wood slamming against the perpendicular wall of the bathroom with a bang.

DiNozzo's relief at finding no small hostages in the tiny room was quickly cut short by the boot that slammed into his temple as he peeked around the corner to sweep the small space. Fireworks burst in front of his dazed eyes as he felt hard metal collide with his wrist, banging his hand against the wall and knocking his gun loose from his grip. He tried to hang on to it, but white-hot pain raced up his arm as he tried to squeeze and his fingers refused to obey his brain's repeated orders. The weapon clattered to the floor as Tony was hauled up against a male body, his own suddenly a shield between his attacker and his boss, who stepped into the room and leveled his gun at what little of the suspect's head wasn't blocked by his sudden hostage.

Through the dizziness and pain spiking through his head, Tony could feel the man's breath on his ear, and the agent braced for Gibbs to shoot and put an end to this. He wondered if he would feel the killer's blood spray his face, feel it mingle with his own, flowing freely from a cut in his left eyebrow.

But then the man spoke.

"The Internet sent you, didn't it?" he wailed, jamming the gun hard into Tony's bleeding temple and wrapping an arm around the agent's neck as he held him in place. DiNozzo reflexively reached up with his uninjured left hand to try to ease the choking pressure on his throat, his long fingers digging into the man's forearm as he struggled to breathe.

"Get your hands _off_ me," the suspect screamed, sending stabbing pain through Tony's aching head. "You touch computers with those hands, goddammit. I know you do."

DiNozzo let his hand drop to his side, even though everything in him was screaming to pry the arm from his windpipe. He managed to get his eyes open and focused, and he found Gibbs holding his stance, the gun steady in his hand. The room tilted and black fog crept in at the edges of Tony's vision so he closed his eyes again at the sudden, overwhelming nausea.

"He can't breathe," Gibbs' calm voice came through the haze and pain.

If anything, the crushing pressure on Tony's throat increased and he felt his knees go weak.

"You kill him and you lose your shield," Gibbs pointed out.

_Or I pass the fuck out and you shoot this bastard,_ Tony thought wildly, unable to speak and wondering if he would ever be able to—if he made it out of this. But then he realized if he dropped, Jordan would likely turn the gun on Gibbs. The grip loosened and Tony drew greedy lungfuls of air, not particularly caring that it made his bruised chest flare with pain on each deep inhalation.

"We're here to help you, Ryan," Gibbs said, watching the man closely for his reaction to the name.

"No!" he screamed, obscuring whatever that reaction had been—just as his hat obscured the location of Ryan Jordan's scar.

Gibbs watched Tony flinch violently away from the scream and that, combined with the blood oozing thickly down the side of his face, made him figure his agent was fighting a serious concussion to stay on his feet. Gibbs knew as well as his partner did that if DiNozzo passed out, Jordan would likely turn the gun on the remaining agent.

Gibbs just wished he knew which Jordan he was facing.

Daniel had already pretended to be his brother once, and Gibbs knew it was highly unlikely that Ryan had conquered his fear of the Internet to look up this motel. But Gibbs knew it was also possible that Daniel had brought Ryan here, or made plans to meet him, all the while feeding his paranoia and setting up a shootout with the authorities. Because Daniel didn't know Samantha had identified him as the shooter, he would think he could serve up the "killer" and with Ryan no longer around to defend himself, Daniel would be free. And so would his mother.

There had to be a way to tell them apart.

And then Gibbs realized there was.

"Take off your hat," he commanded, wincing when Tony jumped at the sound of his voice, his dazed, hazy green eyes blinking open and then squeezing shut again as his left hand pressed to his belly. His right hung limply, uselessly at his side, his fingers swollen like sausages. "Take it _off,_" Gibbs barked when Jordan didn't move.

The man shook his head slowly, pitifully. "I can't," he said, his voice fearful as a child's. "It's the only thing keeping the Internet out of my head." He pulled his arm tighter across Tony's neck, seemingly unaware that he was choking the agent again as he lifted the edge of the black knit hat, revealing silvery duct tape on the inside. "See?"

Gibbs nodded carefully, watching Tony's face go red again as his airway was cut off. "Okay, I see," he said quickly but calmly—or as calm as he could manage to sound with Tony bleeding and choking right in front of him. Jordan moved his hand back to its previous place, and both Gibbs and DiNozzo breathed sighs in relief.

But Gibbs still didn't know which Jordan was standing there—the devious, cold-blooded killer or the mentally ill man who thought the Internet had sent the agents to get him.

But Gibbs did know that he was running out of time. DiNozzo's eyes were unfocused, his breathing ragged, the blood starkly red against skin pale once again now that he could breathe.

"I want you to leave!" Jordan wailed suddenly, stepping forward so that no more than two feet separated his human shield from Gibbs.

Gibbs was so close to Tony that he could smell the blood running down his agent's cheek.

And that made him realize why they had stormed the bathroom in the first place. Gibbs' eyes darted around the small room, landing on the blood-smeared sink beside him.

Jordan followed his eyes. "See? You think I'm Daniel, don't you?" he cried, frustration choking his voice. "He brought me here and he hurt me! Like he always hurts me. I hate him! My name is Ryan and _I'm not him!"_

Gibbs watched, feeling sick and helpless as Tony tried to twist away from the shrieking in his ear, only to have Jordan tighten his grip again, hard enough to make Tony gag.

"Where? Where did he hurt you?" Gibbs asked urgently as his eyes swept over what he could see of the man. He found no injury and Jordan didn't answer. "I want to help you, Ryan, but you're hurting my friend. And if you keep hurting him, Ryan, I'm not going to be able to help you."

Gibbs watched Tony's bleary eyes pop open at that, his eyes rolling slightly as he opened his mouth to speak. "But—"

That was all he got out before Jordan pulled his arm viciously across Tony's throat, choking off the words—and his precious air.

"He is _not_ your friend," Jordan snarled at Gibbs, pressing the gun harder against the agent's bloody temple. "You are _agents, _sent by the _Internet!_ And I want you to _leave. right. now!_" he screamed wildly, tapping the gun against Tony's head with every emphasized word.

"He's just my friend," Gibbs said, his soft words not belying the desperation he was starting to feel, watching the agent who really was his friend choking in front of him. Tony was either mouthing unintelligible words to him—or trying desperately to breathe. Gibbs realized it was the former and said, "Ease up on him and let him tell you."

"If I do that, will you leave?" Jordan whined, still cutting off DiNozzo's air.

Gibbs was about to say no when he caught Tony blinking rapidly, giving Gibbs a slight nod.

"Sure, Ryan," Gibbs said, not understanding what his partner was doing but going with it anyway. He wasn't sure if Tony really trusted him again after the devastating results of their miscommunicated code, but Gibbs trusted Tony with his life. Literally, in this case, because if Tony passed out, they were both dead. "Just let him breathe."

The arm loosened once again and Tony coughed a few times before he could speak. "Just friends," Tony reassured, sounding as hoarse as he had after spending half the night trying to talk Harris down.

"I don't believe you," Jordan spat, cutting off whatever else Tony would have said. "You're _agents_. You _hurt_ people and you read their _minds_ and you take them _away_ and _lock them up_!"

"No, we don't," Gibbs said, watching Tony's eyes slowly losing focus again. "We hang out on Sundays and we drink beer and bet on football games. DiNozzo! Who's your team this weekend?"

Tony's head snapped up at his barked name and he met his boss's steady blue gaze.

"Redskins, by a touchdown."

Gibbs fired without hesitation, his bullet hitting Daniel Jordan right between the eyes.


	11. Chapter 11

With Daniel Jordan no longer holding him upright, Tony collapsed against the bathroom wall, sliding down to slump against the tub, its closed curtain fluttering softly as he put his aching head down on the cool porcelain.

Gibbs was by his side in an instant, one hand landing on Tony's back and the other pulling out a handkerchief. He let his injured agent rest for a moment, knowing from his own past concussions that moving his head would be painful and nauseating.

"You okay?" Gibbs asked softly after several long moments of letting DiNozzo get his breath back.

"Uhnn," Tony groaned in answer, picking up his head carefully and letting Gibbs press the cloth to his bleeding temple. He blinked a few times to focus on his boss's face. "M' head hurts."

Gibbs nodded. "Getting kicked in the face will do that," he said wryly. He touched Tony's cheek gently, letting him turn his head so Gibbs could see the damage. "You're not getting out of a trip to the hospital this time, DiNozzo. You need stitches."

Tony gave a half-shrug, knowing it was futile to protest when Gibbs was looking at him like that—and also from the amount of blood still seeping down his face to land on the brightly white tub next to his injured right wrist.

Gibbs followed his eyes and put his free hand on the back of Tony's forearm, just above the bruised, swollen knot there. "And an x-ray for this wrist."

" 'S not broken," Tony said, wincing as they heard the first squeal of a siren.

Gibbs rolled his eyes, but he was glad Tony was protesting. A docile DiNozzo usually meant a severely concussed one, and Gibbs figured Tony had enough pain to deal with. "Let's let the doctors decide that, huh?"

Tony started to nod but thought better of it, instead letting his head rest on the tub again. "Not sleeping," he said after a moment.

With a smile at the apparent mind-reading, Gibbs asked, "You gonna tell me how you knew?"

That Tony didn't answer right away told Gibbs more about the severity of his head injury than a doctor could.

"When he stepped forward," Tony finally said, speaking slowly and slightly thickly, his voice still hoarse from the arm that had been clamped across his throat, "I saw the candy wrappers again."

Gibbs nodded, realizing they had both missed the clue the first time through. "Ryan's diabetic," he said, hearing the sirens approach and wondering if McGee and Ziva had found that brother at the cabin. The District is smack-dab in the middle of Aberdeen and Front Royal, so Gibbs figured he would be getting a call soon. He wished he could remember how to put his phone on vibrate so it wouldn't bother DiNozzo's head when they called. "There's no way he could have eaten all that sugar in less than a day."

"Yep," Tony confirmed, swallowing hard and making Gibbs wonder if he should move back, out of puking range. Sad green eyes slowly rose to meet Gibbs' blue ones. "That, and I also saw his scar," Tony said quietly, pulling back the shower curtain to reveal Ryan Jordan lying facedown in a pool of blood. Gibbs didn't bother checking for a pulse, considering the depth of the fluid in the tub.

"Goddammit," Gibbs swore softly, recognizing yet another senseless death. He looked to where Daniel's cooling body lay on the pink-tile floor. "Guess the bastard got his wish," he said bitterly. "Ryan's out of his mother's life."

He reached across and picked a folded sheet of paper from Daniel's jacket pocket. After quickly skimming the rambling missive, he said, "Suicide note confessing to the murder, signed 'Ryan.' Right. Guess it wasn't enough just to frame his brother for murder." He glanced at the body in the tub and the knife on the bloody sink. "Bastard had to cut his wrists, too."

Gibbs looked back at Tony to find his dazed green eyes staring at Daniel's body, a pillow of blood under his head. Gibbs blinked in surprise at the tears suddenly shining in those eyes, but he quickly realized his agent wasn't seeing Daniel lying there.

He was seeing Kevin.

Gibbs heard the first of the emergency vehicles screech to a stop in the parking lot, and he held out a hand, quickly pulling Tony to his feet and holding him by the shoulders as he swayed. "C'mon," Gibbs said, sliding an arm around his agent's back and leading him slowly out of the room. "Let's get you outta here."

He shouted an "all clear!" to the cops below, giving Tony's arm an apologetic squeeze when his agent flinched away from the sound.

A plainclothes officer ran up the stairs to meet them, and Gibbs said, much more quietly, "Two bodies. One in the tub was killed by the dirtbag I shot." He handed over his gun and a business card. "Where's the nearest hospital?"

The cop, who had a gold shield at his hip, glanced back down at the parking lot and then back at Tony's bloody face. "We've got an ambulance on the way for victims—"

"He's not a victim," Gibbs said calmly, still speaking softly. "He's an injured federal agent. Hospital?"

"Oh," the detective said, still looking slightly confused, but he gave quick directions anyway. He added an awkward, "Um, thanks?" as he moved to enter the motel room, obviously surprised the fed had turned over the crime scene so easily.

"Think you just made his day," Tony mumbled as Gibbs helped him down the stairs.

Gibbs saw that the tears were gone but Tony still looked anguished—and Gibbs could guess that it wasn't because of the concussion. Gibbs nodded in agreement, feeling his partner shaking as they slowly descended but ignoring the ambulance that pulled up next to the police cars. "Easiest case he'll ever close," he said, opening the passenger door to their sedan and guiding Tony inside. He shut the door as gently as possible and got in, taking a moment before starting the car to study Tony's pale face. "You gonna puke?"

Tony's eyes closed and he winced as he settled his injured wrist near the door handle. "Depends on your driving."

Gibbs smiled, hoping the joke meant Tony was no longer seeing Kevin on the backs of those lids. At least for now. He knew it would still take time for Tony to recover from the boy's death, but Gibbs also knew he would do whatever he could to help make that happen. "I'll even keep it under the speed limit."

"Thanks," Tony said, his eyes still closed against the vicious pounding in his skull. After a moment, he said, "And thanks for catching the code. You saved my life, Boss."

The quiet gratitude made Gibbs' chest go tight—along with the knowledge of just how close he had come to losing his agent. Again. "Well yeah, DiNozzo," he said, needing the levity after all of the senseless bloodshed. "Of course I caught it. Who the hell would bet on the 'Skins to win?"

* * *

Gibbs stood just outside the entrance to the hospital and pulled his phone, wincing at the recent memory of the nurse—a rather large, fiery black woman named Marguerite—snatching it out of his hand in the examination room. He had waited there with a pale, shaking Tony until radiology came to get him, and now, he dialed McGee's cell and wondered at the contents of the nine voicemails his junior agents had left him.

"Boss are you okay?" came the Probie's rushed voice, sans greeting.

Gibbs rolled his eyes. "Just fine," he answered.

"Then why are you at a hospital?" McGee asked, fear and confusion in his voice.

"Tracking my cell, McGee?" Gibbs asked, amused.

The Probie stammered through an explanation. "I uh, well, Ziva and I, we didn't find anyone at the, um, the cabin, so we—"

"Daniel killed Ryan," Gibbs said, cursing the bastard yet again and hoping he was roasting somewhere in the hottest section of hell. "I shot Daniel."

"Oh," McGee said, sounding relieved. His relief was short-lived, though, and he asked, "So why are you at a hospital?"

"DiNozzo got himself kicked in the head taking the bastard down," Gibbs said, keeping his guilt at not having his partner's back out of his voice. He shook his head, remembering his advice to McGee and realizing he hadn't quite pulled it off. "I've got him. You coordinate with the LEOs here."

"Okay," McGee said. "Boss? Uh, tell Tony I'm glad he's okay?"

There was a pause that made the Probie wonder if his boss had hung up on him.

Then: "Yeah, McGee. I will."

Gibbs closed the phone and headed back into the hospital, keeping a keen eye out for the feisty Marguerite. Unfortunately, it seemed she was also looking for him.

"There you are!" the nurse exclaimed, wrapping a hand around his arm with no hint of hesitation and dragging him toward the exam rooms.

Gibbs allowed himself to be towed behind the woman, and he stuffed down his worry for his agent. "First you throw me out, now you're glad to see me?" he teased, smiling as she threw a glare over her shoulder.

"I threw you out because you can't use a cell phone in a hospital," she said, her mouth twitching in a smile as she caught Gibbs' waggling eyebrows. "I'm glad to see you because your boy is causing a ruckus back here."

"Why? You wouldn't flirt back at him?"

She stopped dead in her tracks, turning and letting her eyes rake the agent from head to toe. "I'm saving it all for you, Sugar." She started moving again, still holding on tightly to Gibbs' sleeve. "Now come on."

They entered the room to find Tony sitting quietly, a bag of ice on his wrist and a doctor putting a neat row of stitches above his left eye.

Marguerite gaped, then wagged a finger at the injured agent. "First you fight me tooth and nail over getting that thick skull of yours x-rayed, and now you're sitting there, quiet as a little lamb?"

"Headed for slaughter?" Tony muttered, trying to stay still and catching the doctor's grin as he tied off the last stitch.

"We came to an agreement," the doctor said. "He agrees to a CT, and if it's clear, I won't make him stay overnight for observation." He turned, giving the nurse a smile. "It's called compromise, Marg."

"It's called bein' a sissy," she retorted, hands going to her ample hips. "And my momma didn't raise no sissy-girl."

Gibbs covered a grin with his hand, glad to see Tony smiling—and that he had agreed to the CT scan. Gibbs knew that if Tony were feeling as fine as he was faking, he would be flirting mercilessly with the flamboyant woman, or at least joining the banter. Tony's smile faded and he returned to the listless, trembling state that had Gibbs so worried earlier.

The doctor also noticed the change and gave Tony a pat on the arm. "You just rest here while me and my bulldog go get you to the front of the line, okay?"

"Sure," Tony said softly, not daring to aggravate the pain and dizziness by nodding.

As soon as they were alone, Gibbs sat beside his agent, wholly surprised when Tony leaned against his shoulder and didn't shake off the arm his boss tentatively put around him.

"It's not fair," Tony said miserably, cradling his sore wrist to his chest.

Gibbs gave him a squeeze and wondered if the doctor had given him painkillers. "You heard him, DiNozzo. You get a clear scan and we'll get you out of here."

Tony didn't speak so Gibbs said, "Hey, we both know how hard your head is. You'll be okay."

"When he let him go, I about fell over in relief," Tony said softly, letting his head come to rest on Gibbs' shoulder. The arm around him tightened slightly as Gibbs realized who Tony was talking about. "I thought it was over. And I was just so… relieved."

Gibbs suddenly wished he could see Tony's face, and he realized that was probably why the agent had given in to the sideways embrace. "You couldn't have known," Gibbs said, meaning it. He was never one to placate, and he hoped like hell DiNozzo knew that.

"No," Tony agreed, to Gibbs' surprise. But then he continued, his tone full of bitterness, "But I'm a trained fucking federal agent, Boss. I should have considered all of the possibilities. I should have put the boy behind me… or just turned away from Harris."

"And if you had," Gibbs said firmly, "we'd be burying you _and _Kevin. Once Harris decided to kill the boy, there wasn't anything that was going to stop him. He wouldn't have thought twice about killing you, Tony."

"So?" came the immediate reply as Tony pulled back, blinking dizzily and touching a hand to his head. His eyes focused on Gibbs' face and he dropped the hand back to his side. "Protect and serve, Gibbs, right? I leave my apartment every morning knowing I might not ever make it back. I made my peace with that a long time ago."

Gibbs took a breath, wanting to look away from the agony in the green eyes watching him. "Blaming and second-guessing yourself isn't going to bring him back."

He had expected anger at that, so Gibbs was surprised when Tony laid his head back on his shoulder and whispered, "I know." There was a moment of silence, and Gibbs knew the shaking he was feeling now was less the concussion and more Tony trying not to cry. "I'd trade places with him in a second, though."

"Dammit, DiNozzo," Gibbs said angrily—but he pulled Tony closer to his side. "Don't," he ordered, still seeing images of Harris leveling a weapon at his agent, and of Daniel pressing his gun to Tony's bleeding temple.

"Maybe you should know what kind of person I am before you go defending me," Tony said so quietly that Gibbs almost missed it.

Gibbs waited, but Tony didn't go on.

After a moment, Gibbs felt the deep breath DiNozzo took as he pulled away. Gibbs stood, sensing it would be easier for Tony to say whatever it was that had him looking so ill if there was space between them. The absolute lack of color in his face had Gibbs feeling glad they were in a hospital.

"That wasn't the only relief I felt," Tony said, his eyes dropping to his knees. He pulled in a shaky breath and looked up, locking eyes with his boss. "When I heard that gunshot…"

Gibbs suddenly knew where this was going and he stepped forward, reaching out to touch his suffering friend.

"Don't," Tony said, harshly. He went on, the words pouring out of him in a torrent of guilt, "I knew Harris had pulled that trigger and I knew I was still alive and I felt _relieved._" He stopped, tears streaming down his face. "I was holding a dead little boy and I was glad I was still breathing so don't stand there and tell me you're happy I'm still alive. I don't deserve to be."

Tony brought his hands up and covered his face, his shoulders shaking as he gave in to the guilt and grief and pain that had been threatening to tear him apart ever since that gunshot.

Gibbs knew there was nothing he could say that would dull the claws of those strong emotions so he simply sat down again, pulling his agent against his body without a word. Tony buried his face in his neck, crying so hard that Gibbs had to give him a little shake every now and then to make sure he remembered to breathe. Gibbs didn't speak, didn't whisper soothing nonsense to try to drown out or cover Tony's pain—because it was pain too long buried and it deserved to be heard.

Gibbs looked up and found Marguerite standing at the door to the small room, her face so filled with empathetic pain that Gibbs almost wanted to hug her, too. He didn't need to tell her to get the hell out. She just met his eyes and pointed down the hall, letting him know she would be there when they were ready.

When the tears had finally exhausted themselves, Gibbs reached for his handkerchief only to remember he had tossed the bloody cloth in a trash can out in the lobby. He grabbed a box of tissues off a counter and handed them to his sniffling agent, who suddenly had color back in his cheeks. Gibbs recognized the shame and embarrassment, and he simply shook his head.

"Happens to the best of us, DiNozzo." He moved to the door and paused there, looking back at Tony. "I'll go stall Miss Marguerite for a few minutes while you get yourself together."

Tony nodded.

Gibbs gave him a stern look. "If I'm not back in five, though, come rescue me."

That got a small, sad smile—and a hiccup—out of Tony, who nodded again and continued blushing furiously as he wiped at his face.

Gibbs moved down the hall and found Marguerite sitting behind the nurses' station. She moved to get up but Gibbs waved her down.

She nodded knowingly and asked, "He gonna be all right, Sugar?"

"With time," Gibbs said.

"Mmmhmm." The nurse shook her head vigorously. "If there's one thing I've learned workin' here, it's that there ain't nothin' time can't heal. 'Specially when you got good friends lookin' out for you."

Gibbs nodded. "Mmmhmm." His eyes went to the coffee cup on the desk, and he held up a hand when Marguerite started to hand it over. "No, thank you," he said politely.

"It's fresh," she said, rolling her eyes at him. "No cooties, Sugar, I promise."

"It's more the sugar I'm worried about."

"Honey," she said, pushing the cup into his hands, "I take my coffee like I take my men: tall, hot and black as the day is long." She looked him over again, pretty dark eyes sweeping him up and down. "I'd make an exception for you, though, _Sugar_."

Gibbs grinned and accepted the cup, sipping appreciatively. "Thank you," he said, glancing back down the hall and knowing Tony would be itching to get out of there as soon as possible.

"You think it's safe now?" Marguerite asked, following his eyes. "Boy was raisin' holy hell when the doc told him he had to stay overnight."

"Doubt he's got enough gas left in the tank to fight."

"Good," she said, standing and tapping a syringe in the pocket of her purple-and-white-checked scrubs. "Thought I was gonna have to come loaded for bear."

* * *

It was dark by the time Tony walked out of the hospital with a clean CT, a cast on his broken wrist and Gibbs close by his side.

They settled into the car for the two-hour ride back to the District, but Gibbs stopped, seeing a flash of purple from the corner of his eye. He rolled down the passenger side window and fought a smile.

Marguerite put a pillow on Tony's lap and said, "You take care of that wrist, son." She leaned down farther and gave Gibbs a wink. "And you owe me a coffee someday, Agent Gibbs."

Gibbs nodded. "I pay my debts."

"You better," she said, blowing him a kiss. "Remember what I said about bears."

Tony thanked her and they said their goodbyes, and then Gibbs started driving. As soon as the window was up and they were on their way, Gibbs said, "Not a word, DiNozzo."

Tony laughed, and found that it still felt wrong—but not quite as wrong. He slumped down in his seat, ready to give in to the exhaustion and hoping he would be able to sleep without the nightmares.

"She's not even a redhead," he murmured sleepily, glancing at Gibbs to make sure no headslap was forthcoming.

Gibbs just gave him a look. "What did I just say?"

"That you pay your debts," Tony answered, closing his eyes and settling in. "Aberdeen's not that far, really. I don't even think it would be considered a long-distance relationship."

"DiNozzo," Gibbs growled in warning.

"No headslapping," Tony said, tossing his discharge papers into the backseat. "I'm pretty sure it says so in there somewhere."

"Bet you never thought you'd be happy to have a concussion," Gibbs said.

"I don't know about that," Tony said, rubbing gingerly at his temples, "but the bongo players in my head seem happy to have the gig." He winced and rested his head against the cool glass of the window. "Or at least enthusiastic."

"Get some sleep, DiNozzo," Gibbs ordered, gently.

"Shutting up, Boss."

They were quiet for a long stretch of interstate, and Gibbs thought Tony was finally sleeping—until he shifted and said, "About back there—"

"Hey," Gibbs snapped, lowering his volume when Tony flinched away from the sharp word. "You don't have to say a word about it, Tony. And neither will I."

"I'm not worried you're going to go tell Ziva or the Probie that I cried all over you," Tony said, frowning as he considered that. "Not that that wouldn't be bad. As senior field agent, I have to uphold some sort of—"

"Tony."

Tony sighed. "Just wanted you to know," he said, looking up at his boss, "it wasn't that I didn't trust you after what happened, Gibbs. I didn't trust myself."

Gibbs took in that pained admission, and he reached over and gave DiNozzo's arm a squeeze. It was one of those moments between them when no words were needed and both were glad for their silent communication.

Several miles later, Tony turned, blinking tiredly. "I should also say thank you, Boss, for—"

"You can thank me by getting some rest," he said, flicking a glance at the cast on Tony's wrist. "And not trying to weasel your way back into the field before you're ready."

Tony waited, knowing there was more Gibbs needed to say.

After a moment, he turned and gave him a look. "Go on, Boss. Just say it."

Gibbs grinned, his eyes going back to the cast. "Told ya so."

"Good," Tony said, closing his eyes and getting comfortable again. "So what's this about bears?"


	12. Chapter 12

Tony sat in his car, a bright-red classic Corvette Stingray he bought to replace his bombed-out Mustang, and he was remembering his absolute happiness when he had stepped out of a taxi and saw it sitting there, shining brightly in an old man's driveway.

That man had come out of the house then and exchanged the keys for Tony's check, surprising Tony by giving him a half-hug and saying, "I shined her up one last time for ya and put in a full tank of gas. I know you'll take good care of her." Tony had found himself touched by the stranger's kindness, especially since he knew the man was selling it to pay his dying wife's medical bills.

He broke several traffic laws taking the long way home that bright summer day, relishing the car and imagining the look on that old man's face when he actually looked at the certified check Tony had handed over, its amount a few thousand dollars more than they had agreed upon. NCIS had paid him more than he had expected for his Mustang and he couldn't think of a better use for what he considered blood money. No, he hadn't been in that car when it had exploded—but that day had marked the death of his relationship with Jeanne. It wasn't like he needed the money for a down payment on that house she had been so excited about.

Tony took a deep breath of the warm air blowing from the vents and he hauled his thoughts out of the past. Or tried to anyway. He loved the car, sure, but the reason he was driving it instead of his Mustang would crop up every now and then, and he would see Jeanne sitting in the passenger seat, her eyes full of hate as she told him she wished she'd never met him.

Tony took another breath and tried harder to pull himself out of the past. Today was going to hurt enough without dredging up those past pains.

Arlington National Cemetery was relatively quiet on this bitterly cold morning, but Tony knew it wasn't the chill outside that was keeping him frozen in his car. He wasn't even sure why he was still here, considering the funeral had ended an hour ago and the last of the black-clad mourners had long since made it to their cars—and on with their lives, no matter how impossible it might have seemed. Tony knew it was pure weakness that he hadn't been able to force himself from the car to pay his respects to the family, but he wasn't sure he could have made it through the service without being overcome by his guilt and apologizing to each and every single member of that family for his failing.

Finally, with a glance at his slowly falling gas gauge, he reached forward, his left hand sliding awkwardly under the steering column to twist up and turn off the engine.

The car was long cold when he finally managed to get out, feeling the frigid air hit him like a kick in the chest. The bruise there, from the kick of Jonathan Harris' bullet, was fading, turning all kinds of sickly yellows and greens, but the pain felt fresh as Tony made his way among the headstones.

The agent stopped as his eye caught a funeral procession in the distance, the horse-drawn caisson moving slowly, carrying the flag-draped coffin toward the fallen soldier's final resting place.

_So much death_, Tony thought, willing his feet forward. But he made it only as far as one of the large, reaching shade trees that stood sentry in the cemetery before he froze up again, about fifty yards from his destination. _I can't. I just can't… _

With a sharp sound of disgust, he turned to head back to the car.

And found his boss standing solemnly behind him, blue eyes awash in the same agony tearing at his own soul.

"Yeah, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, taking Tony's arm and turning him, "you can."

Tony just stood there, feeling Gibbs taking a place beside him, standing shoulder to shoulder with him. And in that moment, Tony knew Gibbs would stand there all night if he had to, if that was how long it took.

"Made it this far," Gibbs said after a long moment.

Tony took a few steps forward, feeling suddenly exposed as he stepped out from under the bare limbs of the tree. But then Gibbs was at his side again.

"I…" Tony trailed off, looking at the ground and then up again, sliding his sunglasses back up his nose so they covered the stitches at his temple. "I couldn't handle the funeral."

Gibbs glanced sideways at Tony's fidgeting and noted his dark attire, the black pants and sweater standing in for his usual suit to accommodate for the cast on his wrist. Tony hadn't bothered to try to force the plaster through the sleeve of his long coat, and Gibbs reached up and pulled the black material back over his shoulder from where it had started slipping. "You tried."

Tony's eyes slipped closed and it was suddenly an effort to just breathe. He focused on simply pulling air in and forcing it out for several long moments.

"Feels like I failed him again," Tony said, the brutal wind nearly muting the soft, anguished words. "That night, I—"

"You're here now," Gibbs said before he could start down that road again. This was about moving forward, not looking back. The other mourners had the small comfort of remembering a happy little boy—but Tony had known him only as a terrified child. Moving forward sounded simple, Gibbs knew, but that didn't mean it would be easy.

Tony nodded. He didn't move for a long time, and when he did, he turned to his boss, hesitation written in every line of his body. "Ah, Gibbs?"

"Go on," Gibbs said, nodding and not moving. "I'll be right here."

The unspoken gratitude was obvious as the agent turned away to walk to the open grave. He swallowed hard before looking down, nearly giving in to the tears when he saw a teddy bear lying on top of the coffin, along with ceremonial scoops of dirt and scattered white roses.

"Hey, Kevin."

* * *

Gibbs watched his agent's back, not needing to hear the words to be able to guess what Tony was saying. He knew Tony still felt guilty for what had happened, knew he might always carry that guilt. But Gibbs was immensely glad that Tony had reached down deep and found the strength to come here today. Whether or not he had made it to the actual service wasn't important, but being able to get out the apologies and anything else he needed to say was key to his recovery.

Gibbs knew that, and so he waited patiently, turning up his collar against the biting wind as he turned his thoughts heavenward to say a few words to his own lost child. He added a few for his lovely wife, allowing himself a rare daydream about what their lives would be like had tragedy not derailed the family's future.

By the time Tony returned, both men were shivering.

"C'mon," Gibbs said. "I could use a cup of coffee."

Tony nodded as they walked side by side among the graves. "Meet you…?"

"I know a place," Gibbs said as they reached the access road. "Come with me. You don't need to be driving with that wrist."

Tony glanced at his classic, and the NCIS sedan several car-lengths behind it.

"We'll take yours," Gibbs said, seeing the look and giving Tony a smile. "Been curious to see if it's faster than mine."

Tony smiled back, imagining a possible drag race in their future. He felt a stab of pain, remembering all over again that Kevin's future had been stolen away from him. But Tony also realized moving on wasn't a choice—the only real choice was whether he moved on fully and lived each day as a gift or let the tragedy pull him under until he was walking, talking and breathing, but not really living.

He pulled out his keys, his sharp eyes catching a wisp of orange wool in the crowd at the soldier's funeral where the procession had ended.

Gibbs followed his eyes, realizing whose funeral was taking place across the way.

"Rain check on the coffee?" Tony asked.

Gibbs nodded, watching Tony drop the keys back into his pocket. "You'll get home all right?"

"It'll be a lot easier than getting here," Tony said, hoping his boss would understand the silent "thank you" in that.

Gibbs gave his agent a pat on the back, the look in his eyes saying he had gotten the message, loud and clear.

* * *

Tony crossed the cemetery, moving silently to stand beside the woman in the threadbare orange coat. He slipped his hand into hers and gave it a squeeze as the priest spoke of honor and sacrifice. Samantha Jordan looked up at him quizzically—until he pulled off the sunglasses and gave her a small smile. She squeezed his hand back and reached up with her other, cupping his cheek gently as she studied the stitches at his temple.

Tony didn't know how she knew who had hurt him, but she definitely knew, considering the guilt in her eyes as she frowned at his cast.

She turned her eyes back to the service, though, and held fast to Tony's hand as a woman was introduced by the priest as the deceased's mother.

"Samantha Jordan came to my door yesterday morning and told me her son was the man who killed mine," she said, her eyes finding Samantha in the crowd. She gave a small, sad smile. "I slammed the door in her face."

A small murmur rose from the crowd, but the grieving mother spoke over it. "I stood there for a moment, raging inside and marveling at her nerve. I turned away, but I was stopped by the most beautiful voice I had ever heard, singing 'Amazing Grace' to me through the closed door. And I'm not an extremely religious woman," she admitted, sneaking a sheepish look at the priest and managing to draw smiles from the mourners, "but I do know that it is a hymn with a message that forgiveness and redemption are possible no matter the sin. And I realized she really did have some nerve—and the courage to come to me that day, to offer me comfort in the midst of her own tragedy."

She beckoned, and Samantha gave Tony's hand a final squeeze before going to hug the other woman, who went on, "We talked for hours, sharing the joys and heartaches of raising our boys as single mothers. Sam told me about the trials of raising twins, including a son with paranoid schizophrenia, and I told her about how I was terrified of losing my only son to the war. We cried a lot. But we laughed, too. Nothing will bring our boys back or change the circumstances of their deaths. But we've decided to move on, adding not the hate in this world but to the love. Samantha, will you sing for us?"

Samantha gave a small nod and stepped forward, a big voice emanating from her tiny frame as her clear, crystalline words rang out across the cemetery on that cold, bright morning.

Tony knew—had known for a long time—that not everyone could be saved. The world was an often dark place, full of terror and pain and senseless violence, and it would be easy to give up—to give in and join the grim forces. But just knowing there were still good people in the world, like these two brave women who united in tragedy instead of being torn apart by it, Tony figured there just might be reason for hope.

**End**


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